


Preconceptions

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amaurotine Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), BDSM, Bathing/Washing, Body Worship, Bondage, Comeplay, Dom/sub, F/M, Fluff, Hair Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Obsession, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Other, POV Second Person, Pegging, Praise Kink, Reincarnation, Smut, Soul Bond, Soul Sex, Temperature Play, Voice Kink, Yandere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2020-07-19 06:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 103,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: Knowledge dictates expectation, and expectation colors perception.The misunderstanding goes both ways; Emet-Selch has a number of preconceptions about you that need correcting.Oh, he'll fall, all right. But he'll love it all the way down - and so will you.





	1. Want

Tens of thousands of years, Emet-Selch considers to himself. _Tens of thousands_ of years of living, and he still doesn’t understand how this has happened.

Dismissal, outrage, even outright violence – these things he had expected, and was prepared to deal with. Your allies had all reacted accordingly, but _you._ You, he had not anticipated.

Walking right up to him with that lurid look in your eye, smiling along with his words and accepting his offer with ease. When one of the others, that short, white-haired elezen boy, tried to object, you silenced them all. Pulling out a massive greatsword from your back, letting the mighty weapon hit the ground as a bar between him and the Scions.

“You would have me shed my preconceptions, hm?” He remembers your voice asking him, those eyes boring holes into him. “All I ask is you do the same, and I will accept you as my ally and companion.”

You had stepped forwards, once, and then again, close enough to touch. When he had not backed away you’d reached out a hand towards him, flicking him in the face – the third eye – only for the illusion to dissolve.

That hadn’t perturbed you in the slightest.

“Come see me again, my new Ascian friend. I should like very much to learn of you, and to share of myself.” He watched as you walked away, the others shouting after you, ignoring their every word. None of them dared pursue you.

He’d arrived in your room in the Pendants before you got there yourself. Waiting, expectant, arms crossed. And when you had arrived...

It’s not as though he hasn’t taken lovers among mortals before, for duty or manipulation, or even for simple pleasures such as this mortal flesh afforded him. Any and all manner of debauchery he had engaged in over the years, whatever the others made of it. Anything to pass the time, to ease the loneliness.

The warmth of another’s flesh upon his own, feverish and heavy; it’s not an adequate replacement for true intimacy in any way, but it is a passable distraction.

Your skin on his is anything but a distraction. 

Your smile as you unwrap him, slip your arms under his coat and slide it off so easily as you close in, pressing your chest to his. Pressing him more and more, stepping forwards even as he reaches out to you in return. Clever fingers darting all over his chest, untying and unfurling each part of his ensemble until it’s all loose, so very loose, and the heat building between you is unbearable.

Forward, forward, always pressing forward with gentle, steady steps, backing him into the bed as he concerns himself with meeting his nudity with your own.

And you let him, you grin wickedly at him as you watch him undress you, shrugging everything off easily. Whatever else he meant to do is lost in the movement as you shove him down to the bed, hard enough that he’s laid out on his back as you crawl on top of him, straddling him.

Skin bared to the cool air of the room – a quaint little thing in the Pendants, he remembers it is called – and each touch of your hands on his chest blossoms heat, desire.

A selfsame desire that is heavily, clearly, vividly reflected in your own eyes, gazing down at him. Dilated with lust, narrowing with focus as your gaze flits over him, drinking in the sight, savoring it.

He doesn’t understand. Not in the least. It’s as though this is completely foreign to him. He’s been courted before, even as openly as you had been, and in some cases more so.

Emet-Selch had known the desires of mortals before. He is not unfamiliar with being the object of other’s affections. Of their lust. The depravity of man, he knows well, the truth of how even the most stalwart defenders would yield with the right temptation, and yet.

And yet, he thinks, as your hands brush down towards his abdomen –

He hadn’t needed to even offer. You had picked up of your own will and offered of yourself, undaunted by his status as an Ascian, claiming to take all he said at face value. If that claim is true, then you are right, and you’d figured him out already, after just one meeting. Emet-Selch had need to make no suggestions, no low-voiced implications that you would tire of playing hero with your friends, he needed whisper no temptation.

No. He looks up at your face, smiling down at him, eyes heavy and vivid with lust and desire and _need._

Faintly, quite unlike the feel of your hips settling down against his, he realizes. He is not the one who has come with wisdom and secrets to seduce you with. For once, Emet-Selch is the one who is seduced.

The weight of your body pinning him to the bed is not so great he cannot escape. Of course all it would take would be teleporting straight out, even from underneath you. And yet he does not.

Instead he lays there beneath you, feeling your hands run all over him, greedy eyes drinking all of him in. And he realizes that he is drinking you in, too.

Those clever, sweet, grasping hands drag across his skin so perfectly, he cannot imagine why just the simple feeling of being _touched_ is so precious, so euphoric. Even as your hands wander his body imprints of _feeling_ are left on his skin, the memory of where you had pressed your hands just to _feel_ him.

It hits him then, that this has reached his being past this flesh; even his aether reacts to you. Reaching out, longing, writhing beneath this shell of a mortal body, seeking to complete the contact everywhere you touched.

“You are beautiful,” He hears you whisper, not in awe and reverence, but softy all the same. “You are so beautiful.”

Within the cage of flesh and bone the heart of his mortal body pounds. He is forced to hear it, forced to _feel_ it, jerking inside his chest; forced to remember the truth, that he does not understand. He has been called beautiful before, he has been worshipped and adored and treated gently and softly. Naught that you say is anything he’s not heard before, so why?

Even as he moves beneath you to sit up, to reach out and gain an advantage, you move right back against him. Weighing down what limbs he meant to move, strong and heady and irresistible even if there is no true force behind it. Murmuring praises and affectionate whispers all the while.

What is this? What _is this?_

“And your _eyes,_ ” Your voice does not quite break on the word, but you breathe it out with something like excitement, like pleasure. Did it please you, to be saying these things? He meets your eyes without even meaning to. The bluest of blues, a brilliant sapphire staring back at him, a vivid color unmatched by even an ocean of ceruleum.

He hears something from you that might be a laugh, you press down on him, draping him in warmth. One vessel of flesh upon another, hot and beating and pounding with blood and lust. And yet he still does not know how his hands could tremble of their own volition.

You lean in to him, face ilms from his own; he can feel your breath warm on his cheek. “It’s the brightest, coldest gold I’ve ever seen. Shadowed, everywhere,” A hand on his cheek, cupping and cradling and stroking, “But that only makes them look so much brighter.”

Emet-Selch finds himself moved by this, he finds it in himself to _move_ his arms, to reach out to palm your chest. Delight surges through him to watch you shiver at it, and he trails up and up, past your collarbone and neck to cup your face in return.

“Beautiful, am I?” The words emerge, and he is glad to find himself satisfied with them. The low drawl of their delivery elicits a flash of lust in your eyes, which pleases him even more. “My… you are overfond of the Darkness, for one so well attuned to the Light.”

“Am I?” You say breezily, simpering as you lean in, planting kisses on his neck, nuzzling into the warmth there, the feel of being cradled between his collarbone and chin.

As you speak your lips brush his neck, delicate skin; pulse pounding away between your mouth and his skin. “I am what I choose to be. And right here and now, I choose to be with you.”

There are no words for that. How is it – how is this so? You are aware of his nature, his deeds; you know he is an Ascian and you know even of his more recent history in mortal affairs. Elidibus, Lahabrea, and the others had clashed with you many a time, and in the case of Lahabrea, fatally so. You and your Scion accomplices had worked to _prevent_ the Rejoinings, the Calamities, to stop everything they had worked for, so _why?_

Is it mere lust in your eyes, hidden from him now as you lavish kisses unto his neck?

“For as long as you’ll have me, of course.” The admission comes to him half-murmured, bare and almost demure, almost an askance with a hint of somber melancholy. As though you think he might deny you, as though it is your choice to be with him, but he would not choose you.

Your gasp is like music to his ears, and Emet-Selch is relieved to find himself not at all surprised that his aether had struck out. Not at that – beautiful, gentle, reaching out to him with such need, showing him what it felt like to be _wanted_ – pile of flesh you called your being, but out at your _soul,_ your own aether, shining brightly even as you denied the Light in word and deed. Wanting you to _feel_ him as much as he felt you…

Quick pants alert him to the reality, he feels your body trembling above him even as your hands grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself. He could feel your fingers digging into his bones with feverish strength, near abject terror. When you let out a low whine, he understands he must speak.

“Are you frightened, my dear?” He asks softly, feeling around in himself for some gentleness, for some sweetness, any to spare for this creature above him who wanted him so dearly you would not let him go even in the grip of terror.

You press your head deeper into the crook of his neck, but the shudders betray you. Emet-Selch wraps his arm around you, to add a false embrace to the true one of his aether, to settle a weight on your body to match the weight that coated your soul.

He does not soothe, he does not coo.

“I will show you,” He says instead, closing his eyes, reaching out past the bounds of his soul in the one way he knows you may understand.

A sharp inhalation on your part tells him you have caught his input, the stream of steady conscious visions one might impart unto another through the Echo – and so quickly, too. Clever, but perhaps too clever by half. There’s only one way to find out.

Emet-Selch does not deign to show you _vision,_ of course; Light is unnecessary, it hardly has a place in such a joining. No, he feeds you _feelings,_ other sensations; the touch of your skin on his, the strange exhilaration he’d felt as you made his body your knowledge, each heartbeat and thrill packed into the aether that seeps into your being.

He focuses the memory of sensations into the aether, that you might experience it as your own, and slowly builds up to the experiences of that very moment. Showing you how it _felt_ to reach out with his aether, as foreign and new to you as the use of a new limb, he grants you the sensation of moving it, of feeling it as a part of yourself –

Your aether slams into him, at once; overwhelming, saturated in lust and desire and at the same time pulling at him with this desperate, inescapable _need._ Normally it would be easily redirected, but now he finds himself near drowning in your wishes, his own dark energy only amplified, electric and ignited by every pulse of your untrained desire to resonate with him. Untrained, but powerful, irresistible, pulling him along as two floods meeting together; he cannot find it in himself to want to stop.

At once, he regrets showing you. Not in truth, of course, but to think your had reacted so strongly, that you understood his meaning so quickly. You who were so eager, and this desire you harbored to an _Ascian_ of all things – the thoughts are swept away, more and more, because your adoration is clear, in every whisper, in every touch.

How could you have possibly been afraid? So unsuitable for some such as you, one so passionate and powerful and driven.

He blinks.

Emet-Selch reaches down, tugging at you with aether and arms, away from his neck and up to where he can see you. He meets your eyes, alight with –

You hadn’t been trembling in fear. It. _is not._ fear.

Suddenly, his mouth is dry. Unthinkingly his lips part, and you descend upon them with all the fervor and hunger of a starving beast upon its prey. Ravenous, as desperate and heated as your eyes burning into his had been.

As though before now you’d been holding yourself still, keeping yourself in check. Your desires in check. Until the moment he had reciprocated, not in the ways of mortals, but in a true connection of souls, tenuous and unrefined though it may have been.

“Why?” He asks, in the moments between where his lips are on yours. Letting his aether wash over you, carrying the intent behind the question so he has more breaths to spend with his tongue in your mouth. Still, he must pull away for confirmation. “You do not care for the struggle of Light and Dark, you do not care about my motives. You take what you want, quite unlike a hero. So why…”

His murmur is lost to the insistent press of your kisses, sweet, fluttery things that nearly tease a laugh from his throat. Your aether presses on him, unrefined – savage, even – and unable to impart aught but mood and intent. Fervent desire and arousal, so closely twined and intense there is aught else he can glean from it, even with all his experience.

You’d been willing to hold back these desires, until he’d shown you the depth of his own, even when the intensity had been so great. How has this come to be in the first place? Emet-Selch does not delude himself; he is pleasing to the eye, certainly – this form was specially crafted, after all – and he had a practiced charm of ages. You, however, are inexplicable.

But to incite something like this, for you to long for him so, for you to chase after him even as those around you reacted with disgust. Those clever hands drop down to his arousal, fingers flitting across it, even as his aether tenses and roils around you. Deep, heavy pants reveal the breadth of its affect on you, even as he feels himself hardening at your fingertips.

What _is_ this? You aren’t even trying to chase your own satisfaction, instead roaming over his body, savoring the touch of his aether like you meant to remember it forever. Reaching out with your own, clumsily, but soothing him in broad strokes, allowing the whole of your longing to flow over him. _Oh,_ how you want, so badly do you want – he can feel it, the visceral pull of your aether towards him.

He cannot stop himself from longing back, the reaction taking place as naturally as the pull of the moon upon the tides. No effort need be expended, not a thought goes by in his mind as his aether clings at you, engulfs you; there is only relief, after ages of aloneness, to feel _back._ The feel of sunlight on his face, you radiate energy and excitement, all too willing to give for his taking. 

It’s amusing, to see you so eager, inexperienced but pleased with every new motion and sensation. The delight is infectious, for him and for you. To have successfully made contact, to have touched him in such a way and learned the touch of his aether on you; Emet-Selch cannot but know how precious these things are to you, how desperately you savor the feeling of it as the moments drag on.

How strange it is, to be treasured so. That you think so highly of his reaching out, that you would know him beyond his flesh and more still. The appeal is undeniable. One such as you, so eager and willing and _brilliant,_ able to understand with a natural ease, Hydaelyn’s beloved child and Champion –

And you want _him._

You want him more than anything, more than any of Her words could compel you otherwise.

But even so the feeling of your hips grinding against his, the insistent _want_ of your aether surging through his being; there is no recourse for this but joining. True joining, true _understanding._ To bare himself to you and see the whole of your soul in return. And yet when he reaches out, you only push back, impose your desires back on him.

You want him, you want him, want, want, want. The need he feels in return is undeniable, he cannot but comply with your desires as his own have been so desperately stoked, but _why._

“Why?” Why are you like this? Your smile is his only answer, falling down upon him, one open mouth on another.

You swallow his questions as you soak in his aether, dark and frenetic and cloying as it paints your light in purples and violets. Basking in it, even; the very sight is intoxicating, unimaginable. Though the pleasure he imparted upon you from his aether was far better, he finds himself coming to a peak himself. By the feel of your soul pressing into his, longing, warm, even coated in darkness. There is no rejection, no assertion or division; only whole and heartfelt acceptance, your aether only hums with pleasure at the feel of his being on yours, radiating satisfaction.

Try as he might, the contentedness comes to him, even as his question goes unanswered, even as you slip into unconsciousness when bliss overwhelms you.

Tens of thousands of years, and Emet-Selch has never been seduced before. He does not understand in the slightest, how this has come to be…

You move a bit against him, the feel of your muscles working beneath your skin, pressed against his chest, altering him to how you curl into him. Arms sprawled across his bare form, palm tight on the skin of his back as your fingertips dip to caress him. Fondly. Entirely unconscious.

…But he does know that it will come to be once more, very, very soon.

It makes sense to go along with it, of course. He loses nothing from it, and has much to gain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well? Why _do_ you like Emet-Selch? Comment below, guys, he’s desperate to know~
> 
> I've got a kinda rough idea for the next chapters, and I wrote this first chapter in basically a day because of the level of vagueness and how totally non-detailed the smut is. So the idea is to update this a few times on a regular bases, which, coming from me, is probably not very promising but I feel like it's achievable! XD I've already got some of the next chapter written and I have kept a strict wordcount goal to myself so I won't feel pressured to write more because I don't think a chapter should be less than 2k words. 
> 
> Not sure how long it will last, but there will be at least two more chapters. If you have any interesting prompts or scenes you'd like to see between our assertive, lusty WoL and this baffled (perhaps... bashful?!!) Emet-Selch, hit me up, that'll only make it all go faster :D


	2. Held

Sometimes, you just want to be held.

Emet-Selch is no closer to finding the truth and he will not be any closer after this, he thinks as he feels the arms around him tighten. Even more than they are already.

Pressed flush against him, every ilm of your flesh bearing into his, feeling you with his whole body at once; Emet-Selch knows he will receive no answers from this, and he lets it go on, in any case.

Why? What is it about you, the squirming, writhing creature of flesh and blood, that made him allow you into his embrace? Why does the look of your soul so completely _undo_ him, sundered as you were, a pale reflection of former glory?

Lusting after you so perpetually, receptive to your every advance, he _does not understand._ Mortal bodies are easy enough to arouse with proper stimulation, he had never had trouble in his other lives when called to sire children, but now a mere look from you has him _enflamed._ Consumed with these disgusting, visceral sensations.

The sound of your voice dances over his skin spreading warmth to every corner of it. His body shivers and shudders without his input as easily as moans fall from his lips without his active thinking about it. It’s impossible to think that these filthy, carnal, _mortal_ delights have such an inescapable hold on him, but –

One look at your eyes and he _unwinds._

It’s the most beautiful blue he’s ever seen. There’s no question about it, not to his mind hazed over in something that’s not quite lust, not to his aether reaching out in desperation, eager and longing for the touch of another’s soul. So long, it has been so long, _so long –_

He’s home, he’s finally home, after so long he can be at home in your arms.

There is nothing to wait for. No tasks to be accomplished. No lies to be spun or tales to be told or battles to fight. He is here, he is home, he’s _back_ and for once his illusion is holding him back just as tightly.

Fingers dig into his shoulders, skin against skin, hot and heavy flesh pulled down into him until his body heat was indistinguishable from your own. Your head long since buried into his chest, nose poking into his skin, hands clinging to his sides hard enough that your fingertips dug into his ribs.

Still he does not let go, does not loosen his grip. Your aether reaches out, as surely as his own, but a crashing wave instead of a reaching tendril. Broad and direct instead of precise and focused. There is no message in its approach, no intentions to be communicated, no meaning to understand. It fulfills its purpose merely by touching him.

Close, close, and closer your press yourself into him. That blue aether falling upon him again and again, coming from you in waves, carrying naught, serving no purpose but to extend your being, but to touch him in more ways now that you are as close as physically possible.

Closer, he hears. Your soul craving contact, calling out to him, glowing at his nearness like a fire on a winter night, buffered by winds and stoked by his very presence. You want to be closer to him, closer, closer, closer until there’s nothing between you at all.

Closer? Is that what you want? It can be done. Since you want it so badly – the pressure on his chest grows with every breath, and not only because you are nuzzling into it, clutching his whole torso against you as though you fear he will be stolen away somehow…

It's utterly inappropriate to do that for such a purpose as this, so inane. But then, _you_ had been inappropriate, _you_ had propositioned him so openly, embraced him so easily, reached out to him with such want and desire that he could not help but reciprocate.

This is not the place, but he can bring you to a place. A lair all his own, between worlds, where the both of you may freely engage in… whatever it is you are searching for so feverishly.

So he goes. Violet aether bleeds from him, around him and you; you are already close enough, your aether and his already so deeply entwined. He teleports you and him away.

Far away. No other could come across this place without great effort, a space created on his whim at this very moment. A part of the empty space between worlds no living soul could occupy, and one even another Ascian would be hard-pressed to find.

Faraway, he takes you, in his arms. Your grasp upon him only tightens unto painfulness, the intensity of it too much for this vessel of flesh. This wretched form that prevented him from receiving the fullness of your affections.

So he transforms, just in part. To a form more suited to the attentions of one such as yourself. Sundered though you may be, you stood far and above the mortals of today, and it would not be meet to treat you as one. In a flash of dark aether seeping from his form, your hold is now about a much larger being. Great enough not to encircle even the front of him entirely.

There is nothing to hide from you; all that makes up this form is yours to hold. It is for you that he’d done this, after all. That he has enough arms to hold you, that there is enough of him to envelop you; a robe long and deep, a mask that covered naught but pure aether beneath. The only hint of flesh formed is his hands, made specifically for holding.

Repulsive as it is to lie on the ground like this, in this form, to be _prone_ even as this tiny pathetic little creature mewled and hummed atop him, Emet-Selch, _Hades,_ cannot but think he would do anything to hold you more. He is in no danger here, there is no threat, and soon the feel of your aether pressing back on his, delighted and yet all the more greedily grasping, preoccupies him entirely.

The hands most human grasp your form most closely, fingers sharp and clawed. Ever so gentle, he must be, with this small, delicate creature atop him. One hand is easily able to wrap around your entire waist, the other rests itself just barely against your legs, careful with its weight.

Other arms, huge and monstrous things, settle for wrapping widely around himself and you, almost clutching his own chest as they cross over you. Protective, covering the entirety of your form, great and possessed of all the terrible strength his aether could weave. As gently as he can, Hades holds you close and closer, ever mindful of every part of him that is sharp.

Close as you are, he can feel how your soft flesh yields to hard claws as easily as you do; all sensations are shared. He knows where to be gentle, where to ease off. With utmost precision he moves to allow you to snuggle into him further.

You press into him, you cling onto his robe and nestle further into the form of his aether made manifest. There is no flesh to distract him, no arousal to guide his thoughts, and yet he can still only think about _you._

And now the final barrier between you and his essence, his very soul and being bared to you is this mask, the coverings he had seen fit to place upon his true form. Nothing about them occupies your attention, you wish only to burrow more deeply into him, to be held _tighter,_ to be encompassed completely by his being –

Convenient, indeed, it is. To have the echo himself; that your own echo projects your thoughts and feelings so strongly upon him. And still you are unsatisfied. The ache is as his own; closer, closer, as there is a void within him to be filled, a longing for warmth, the feeling that there is nothing where there should be something.

Loneliness, cold and cruel, claws at your back through all his careful hands. Even as he holds you close.

Dig in, then, if you please; there is no reason to stop you. To have gotten this far and deny you any more would be a farce. He feels you rip at the robe, tear through it, press _into_ his being and aether, diving into the pure essence of his being.

And so you are swallowed by the darkness, embraced by him entirely, in every way he is able to provide you.

It is dark everywhere, and then it is not. Strange though the connection may be, Hades sees all as you see, feels it all as you feel, with your consciousness and thoughts pressed so close to his mind. He listens to you wonder where you are, and in that instant you examine your surroundings – his aether, his very being.

How do you perceive him, with your mortal senses as they? Hades is curious, so he watches you watch him.

To you he is dark, dark everywhere, but not entirely black. There are purple hues, curved streaks upon this landscape, and brilliant sparks of gold flickering in and out of existence. This is how he _looks_ to you; violet and black and gold, every color deep and vibrant and unending.

He hears you listen, and he hears _himself_ – his own words, echoing into the scenery, _“Cooperation!”, “I will even lend you my knowledge and strength.” “It is truly, deeply… **infuriating**.” _He feels you tremble and shudder at each and every word, his tone echoing throughout your sundered, volatile being, resonating through the whole of it.

But how you savor each and every world… Over and over and over you listen to them until he realizes that you are gladly affected by them, that you _crave_ the sound of his voice. To hear him speak to you has you glowing, radiating happiness, reaching out to him all the more.

Hades tries to feel how you feel him but is overcome. There is not pleasure, not a lover’s satisfaction, not the desperate heat of release. Warmth merely floods into him; he recognizes that for you the feeling floods your chest, seizes your heart and leaves it racing desperately. For him there is no heart to pulse, no blood to feel rushing through, and so it is the entirety of his soul which is overcome with the feeling of pure, unadulterated _warmth._

Home. He is where he _wants_ to be, he is _with_ who he wants to be with, he is not _alone,_ he is _cared for,_ this is _safe,_ and he is _loved –_

Is this how he makes you feel? It’s incomprehensible. Just by being near you-

_The face that looks up at him fills his heart with joy; framed by hair that is vibrant and faded purple all at once, smooth, curved features with the tints of angles at the edges, bright yellow eyes set in shadowed hollows, a mouth so beautiful he wants to touch it with every part of himself, but first, with his lips._

This is him, to you. These colors, these sounds, this feeling; the delight you feel upon seeing his face.

To you, this is what Emet-Selch is. This is all that makes up Hades in your mind. How you perceive the fabric of his being. It is not, upon further reflection…

It is not entirely unpleasant. It is not unpleasant at all, to think that this is what he is to you. It is not unpleasant… to have such a creature coddled within his being, surrounded by his power and aether, glowing merely at the understanding that he thinks of you. That he wishes to hold you.

Engulfed in him as you are, surrounded by naught but the things that remind you of him, of the things that your mind most closely associates with his being. Feeling the fabric of his being against your own, surrounded in the warmth that was his own darkness; this is the embrace you wanted.

This is what it is to be held.

It strikes a chord in your soul – Hades feels it as the ring of a bell, old and low, unheard of, resonating throughout the whole of your being. _He_ had been embracing _you_ – you must embrace him back.

Before he can cast away the foolish line of thought you seize upon it, seize _him,_ reaching out to engulf him with your being just as much as he has you.

Hades would call you silly, for a sundered existence such as your own cannot possibly contain his own being-

But he is lost in the blue, in the beautiful cerulean flood of longing and hope. Wanting to be with him, be near him, return to him the delight he brought to you just when you looked upon his face.

Everywhere is blue. Everywhere is the vision of your smile, the feel of your hands on that mortal body.

Your aether permeates every fiber of his being, waves of happiness. You are where you wish to be. _He is_ where you wish to be.

So strange a thing it is, to be wanted. In the list of peace and contentment, he feels at home. He is not alone.

So strange.

How unalike you are, to that person of so long ago. Close as you are, he has yet no answers.

And yet…

He is content.

He holds you tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I heard some of you were monster fuckers… so I wrote you some fluff.  
> Anyways, this is basically how the development of this fic has been going so far:  
> Me: So, for the plot I think I’ll delve into-  
> Me, beating myself over the head: NO! NO PLOT! ONLY SMUT! IS SMUTFIC! SMUT AND FEELS ONLY!  
> Me, choking on my own blood: They have…aether sex…and…bond..  
> Me: Good  
> Me, with my last breath: …they talk about their relationship  
> Me: STOP THIS  
> Me, dragging out my last breath: Emet gets feels and Emotions and Tempering things happen and the other Ascians a-  
> Me: NO MORE CHARACTERS STOP NO JUST EMET/WOL STOP THAT’S ALL
> 
> I keep... starting a chapter... and then... the chapter turns out to have too much dialogue and stuff in it.. and plot.. and... eugh... no please... But! I finally started on THIS part when I got the whole cuddling thing in my head (big arms = BIG CUDDLES you can't convince me otherwise) and it turned out positively dialogue-less, which I am very pleased about. Believe me you guys, I have written a LOT of Emet-Selch/WoL dialogue, just you wait...
> 
> But anyways, for the actual... like... aether-sex and fusing and... closeness... stuff... I don’t know what I was doing writing this and I feel like I didn’t do as much or as good as I could have done, but I don’t know what other angle I could have taken. I hope you enjoyed it!


	3. Search

He disappears, of course. He would not deign to stay the night, not when he had an introduction to make the next day. To allow you to wake up with him beside you is far more than he could allow, he has slept already for far too long.

He leaves you there, arms wrapped around the space where once his form had laid. A soft sigh teased from your unconscious lips as your embrace falls upon nothing.

Leaving is harder than it should be; Emet-Selch knows why. Traces of his aether linger upon you, clinging like some viscous material, invisible on every plane but aethereal. His mark upon you, deeper and truer and _realer_ than any some mortal could produce. A mark to be felt, not seen. A mark that took from him as much as it bestowed unto you.

When he leaves he leaves some of himself with you; to tear it away is beyond his heart to bear. So he rips it away from himself. Forcibly leaving your presence, contenting himself with the knowledge that the parts of him that truly refused to part with you remained right where he wishes to be.

The urge to put his hands on your face and feel you press your cheek into them; the instinctive response to the sight of you that made his mortal heart skip the beats he demanded of it; the trill that went through him at the sensation of your aether roiling and coiling up to lunge at him. He leaves all of these things with you, these parts of him safely stained on your soul, a part of him, but separate.

Pulsing and radiating joy all the same, clinging to you so desperately that it was easier to leave and tear them off himself than to pry his cloying aether from your soul.

Emet-Selch leaves feeling empty and incomplete.

Is this what it is like, to be Sundered?

He finds he does not enjoy it. His aether does not return to him, regardless.

When you awake, he knows it. The tugging of heartstrings to find your bed empty, the sadness, the reaching out – it’s far beyond your abilities, quick study though you may be, to reach him where he is now – and without prompting, his aether warms. Soothing you from within, wordless, silent, but the unmistakable presence of _him_ inside you.

Curling and coiling up about your own soul, a heat in your chest that radiates outward, chasing every ache and shadow of doubt from your being.

Not a blinding power like the Light, nor the soothing calm of Hydaelyn’s blessing. No force of nature, this, no great will passing protection of power unto you; it is Emet-Selch, it is **him**. So purely and intensely him that you cannot associate it with aught else, not in intensity or sensation, not in emotions or words. It is the feel of his eyes glancing over you, the sardonic smile that met your lips with equal purpose, and the sharp angles of his face underneath your fingers, all at once. And _so much more._ Him, Emet-Selch. _Emet-Selch. **Emet-SelchEmet-SelchEmet-Selchades-**_

?

He blinks.

…It would be prudent to go meet with your… allies, friends, _whatever_ they were, before you got out of your room. Determine just how unnerved they were by your actions the other night.

“Emet-Selch,” He hears from the door, just as it opens. Before he can even see you he _hears_ you. Feels you.

Warmth, satisfaction. That he is here at all, that he is here because of you. For you.

“Warrior of Light,” He calls you, “Or should I say, _Darkness?_ ”

The others give him _looks._ He notices especially the fair-haired hyur keeps his eyes on him, even when you enter. Even as his elezen comrades give you stares far more withering than the ones they gave him, the _Ascian_ they so despised.

You ignore them easily, stepping in, and as soon as your eyes meet his, you grin. “It’s good to see you again!”

“Well, which is it?” The hyur man really should learn not to interrupt others. “Light or Darkness?”

Who _is_ he speaking to, really? And why does he think he is important enough to answer?

“Call me whatever you please, Thancred. You always do.”

A pang of annoyance runs through him. Where is that easy dismissal you showed earlier? These people are not worth your time, and you know it.

“I am glad to meet you once more, as well.” He lowers his voice, eyes sliding over the room’s occupants with ease. “ _Satisfying_ though your company was, last night, scarce had we any time to discuss the finer details of our… association.”

The hyur, _Thancred,_ has his hand on his gunblade in an instant, but even as he reaches you dart towards him. Towering over the man, grasping his arm in a grip that looked to be crushing, gazing down on him imperiously.

“Violence in the Ocular? Have some decency.” Your voice is as bladed as his weapon.

“’Tis not _he_ who has forsaken decency, friend.” The grown elezen says from the side.

There are no denials from anyone in the room; no looks of shock or disbelief. They all know. Either you had told them, or more likely, your activities with him had been overheard.

“You’re right, I have forsaken it.” _That_ is surprising to them, at least in some measure.

The elezen children nearly recoil in shock, the face of the man who had chided you darkens. The hyur beside you shuffles, jerking his arm away, and you allow it. Behind him, the Exarch clears his throat, as though to speak.

“The next Lightwarden is in Rak’tika, yes?” You announce, looking straight at him.

Are you speaking to _him?_ Why-

“It is, yes. And Y’shtola-”

The Exarch behind does not finish his sentence; you turn on your heel and leave. But in a gesture not a single one of them could have possibly missed, your arm reaches back, hand waving forward so as to beckon them.

Beckon _them._ The tension in the room skyrockets as the others realize the gesture was meant for _him._

Emet-Selch has been outpaced again; once more you’ve taken matters into your own hands and he is left without answers.

The situation is unacceptable.

In the middle of accusations being thrown at him, stares, some vicious words from the gunbreaker he does not deign to remember, he opens a portal and allows himself to be drawn in by the violet-black tendrils of the void.

To Rak’Tika it is.

It’s hard, doing this in the Light. But ever does he make do with what he has. The forest boughs offer no small coverage, but the Light is as oppressive as ever. Choking his presence, stifling the fluidity of his aether which should run smoother than the air itself, and now struggles to trickle through.

Still, he is ever creative. Even if he cannot create under this impossible pressure of Light upon him, there is yet a way to settle these scales with you.

The remnants of his aether still linger on you. A soul such as his does not simply dissipate, the stains to not easily fade. However great the Light within you is, ‘tis naught compared to your own fervent desire. Her Blessing, the Lightwarden’s power, the bounds of your own soul – none of it can reject him when your own aether clings to his just as tightly.

What a creature you are, to possess such willpower. Under any other circumstances, he might even call it… impressive.

But for one such as you it is child’s play. The standards for _you_ are much higher. ‘Tis time to see how well you might meet them.

It’s easy, pulling on you. Just a tug, really. Minute and indistinct, but impossible to overlook. The parts of him that have clung to you pulse and squirm with life, he feels your soul tremble at its touch. The feel of his hands tingling on your skin which has no discernable physical cause, memories brought to the surface by the echo of his presence. 

_Instantly_ he feels you start, struggle to place the source of the sensation. Watching near gleeful in the shadows, he sits just out of reach of your blind grope with the Echo. You can surely tell he is not _physically_ here, so you look in what other way you are able. Without any knowledge or direction, you are merely reaching out into open air and feeling about for any touch of what you sought, hoping to run into it despite having no clue of is whereabouts.

There is no magnitude or direction to the feeling; his aether is entwined with your being, woven throughout your soul. It cannot convey a sense of location, it only provides stimulation at his will. You can get no closer to him by relishing in the feel of it; if you wish to find him, you must seek him out yourself.

He hears – he cannot hear it, he is nowhere near close enough, but it reverberates through your soul and through that, his own. A low-pitched whine, a cry for company, for his presence, you are calling out for him, and he is simply standing there waiting for you to seek him out, how cruel, how _evil –_

Nonsense. This is not some task you are unable to accomplish. Emet-Selch stays where he is, making no attempt to conceal his aether. You should find him on your own.

In the meantime, it would not do to simply ignore you. Mayhap a little more _stimulation_ would keep you on your toes. Have you searching a little faster.

You’re already sprinting through the forest, that’s easy enough to tell, but all he needs do is teleport to another place, further away, in the event you do come near. It is a large forest, after all, and without any aether sensing abilities you have only a random chance of heading in his direction.

Naught would you learn if you kept up this wild hunt of yours, roving through the forest like a beast searching for its prey. Time for a little stimulation, then.

It’s a surprisingly harrowing sensation, to miss a step; footfall landing in an unexpected place, weight thrown forwards just a bit too much, the strange sense of panic and weightlessness associated with it. You miss a step, and then another, until he knows you have stopped running.

He does nothing as banal as touching you from afar, of course, nor does he rely upon the Echo to draw out fresh memories of intimate pleasure. Taking upon the knowledge, the fabric of your mind he had tasted, he calls upon the memory with distinct, perfected detail.

The memory of how you felt while you loomed above him, hot and flushed and aroused, the places inside your soul that had lit up at his touch-

Involuntarily, _completely_ involuntary, is the smirk that dances on his lips. The lust strikes through you as loudly as your call for him to come to you, near paralyzing in its intensity. So easily distracted you were by matters of the flesh. Just a press in the right place, his aether trilling through your soul, strumming out the notes of heat and excitement.

But not an onze of satisfaction. This lust is stirred from within, though he can feel you struggle and tease at fulfilling yourself, your own hands cannot bring you to completion. No physical prodding and toying will result in a climax; he merely keeps it burning, a low simmer that persists however you attempt to rid yourself of it. The heat in your loins does not come from any touch upon your body, and physical stimulation will do naught to further this lust.

How lovely it is, to sense your frustration, to feel you _squirming_ and palming heated flesh to no avail. It’s such a messy thing, mortal arousal, but at least it’s entertaining.

And sufficient motivation besides; exactly what he sought. For you to grow frustrated enough to abandon your old senses and seize upon new ones, reach outside the confines of your known abilities and really, _truly_ pay attention to senses where precision had been lost to granularity.

The desperation, feverish and determined, drives you. To find him, wherever he may be, to _go to him,_ **wherever he was** , you would find him. Seeing your thoughts focus so intently upon his own self sets his heart off-beat for a moment, his own blood pounding through him in a mirror of your own current feelings.

Out and out and out you reach; far and away, searching the confines of your own senses and your memory, seizing _any_ available opportunity, grasping all knowledge you possessed that might be-

Something is wrong. Separate from him though it may be, his aether that lingers upon you feels… raw, vulnerable. Left to the open air instead of protected deep within your being. Bared for the world to see along with your own soul.

You are reaching out with your aether, it seems. Yours entwined with his. It’s a start, but it’s also not; the _sense_ of where he is by his aether is not one that can simply be grown, but one such as yourself could conceivably There’s a disturbance in the Lifestream, somehow, but you’re clearly not wreaking any great destruction, not doing anything that would draw upon any great power. 

_Flow,_ the word comes to his mind without explanation. Implanted there, with aught in the way of reason or context. It came from you. But _where?_

The _stupid_ mortal heart in his chest nearly seizes in place as you appear before him; suddenly your hands are on him, touching, caressing even though clothing. He’s shoved back against the tree, pinned against it, and –

“What are – _why aren’t you wearing any clothes?_ ” He cannot imagine a single explanation that would satisfy him. Emet-Selch half suspects you would not so much as offer one.

Feverish blue eyes look up at him, grasping and clingy as your hands – he ignores how his own hands clutch at you just as tightly – and you press your naked body into him. Far better would it be for you to be in his position, in which case you might at least be covered in part by himself from the front, and the tree behind you.

You are completely and totally in the nude, not an ilm of covering on you anywhere.

“Explain yourself.” Demanding, unmoving, he pushes you away but does not release your shoulders. Keeping you at an acceptable distance.

Shamelessly you meet his gaze. “It was hot.”

Unbelievable. You’re not even _trying_ to come up with a convincing lie. He feels his lips start to curl into a smile and quickly stops himself. _Absolutely unbelievable._

“And that was sufficient reason to take off your clothes?” Asking again, harshly, he snaps his fingers just above your shoulder.

In an instant you are enrobed in plain black – it had been the first thing to come to his mind, and he regrets it already. But you were almost certainly not about to put anything on yourself.

His suspicions are confirmed when he sees you tugging at the cloth and he covers your hand with his own, glaring at you expectantly.

“I figured they would get in the way. Was I wrong?”

 _Of course_ you are wrong. Emet-Selch opens his mouth.

Whatever he meant to say is lost in your kisses.

You end up being right, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters aren’t coming out in order and this doesn’t have a plot!! You guys believe me, right??? You have to believe me! I’m not making this up!! Rather, I am literally making this all up, and I don’t want to leave anyone with the impression that I’m making narrative promises here which may not end up being kept!
> 
> Frankly speaking I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m not sure I particularly want to! I am lost at sea without a compass and I have so many ideas and a longfic planned so it's like I'm lost at sea, directing an armada, through a storm, without a map. And also I am blind and don't know how to sail. 
> 
> Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy it!


	4. Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emet-selch is not okay, survivor’s guilt, angst, i didn't write this to hurt you but the opportunity to end it like that just appeared out of nowhere, hope you understand

Sometimes, he just needs to be held.

The nightmares never stop.

Oh, he sleeps and he sleeps and he sleeps away, praying every moment that this time he will be granted some blessed rest – and each sleep, his prayers are denied.

It feels good. It feels right. The nightmares are deserved, well-earned, fitting entirely for one such as him. He’d never asked the others but he knows they have them, too. Lahabrea had worked and fretted away, unwilling to surrender to sleep and face the end of Amaurot.

Emet-Selch doesn’t have it in himself to blame him. Lahabrea had saved Amaurot, he’d been the one to come up with the idea, he was integral to the summoning process –

Unlike _him._

 _He_ should have been sacrificed with the rest. He would have been glad to be sacrificed with the rest, to their lord, to create His existence in this world – _he_ should have been among them. All those people of the Final Days, desperate and scared and huddled together, taking faith in the Speaker’s words and volunteering themselves without hesitation.

He should have _made_ Lahabrea accept him as a sacrifice. He should have gone with them, disappeared with them in so much mist and aether, to form the savoir that would restore their world. _He should have gone with them._

What is the fall of Amaurot, re-living the hell made of his home, over and over, compared to their selfless sacrifice to save this ungrateful, unworthy world? Watching the buildings fall, the air crackle and rip as the space it occupied warped and melted, _watching their world **burn** -_

It’s nothing less than he deserves. Their sacrifices are still for naught. They’re dead and he’s here, living and breathing and failing the legacy they entrusted to him.

What’s easy to forget, in the throes of intimacy, of revealing himself and the wholeness of his soul to your own Sundered one, is that the vessel bearing your soul is larger than the one that bears his.

Taller, just by a bit. He is slim, not quite skeletal but still not filled out in the least, and you are lean but muscled from your days adventuring; it is really no surprise. He would be lying to say he would not prefer to be taller than you, to lord his height over you as he could many other mortals.

Emet-Selch would prefer to be larger than you, would prefer to dwarf your mortal form as his own soul dwarfed yours. Embrace you with flesh that could surround your form as easily as he might with his aether, but such was not the nature of things, it seems.

Your soul is less than his; you’ve not nearly his amount of aether. But you, too, can cradle his body in yours. After a fashion.

It is without his active awareness that it comes to be. Deftly shifting and cajoling, maneuvering yourself around him with slow, subtle movements, you arrange this state. His back to your chest, curling into himself ever so slightly even as you curled yourself around him.

Somehow, though, in your arms, with your being entwined with his, he finds you cupping his body with your own. Holding him close and tight and wrapping yourself all around him.

So here he is, Ascian, former Emperor and founder of Garlemald and Allag and many other nations of men long since come and gone.

Tucked under your chin, pulled flush against your chest. Safe and warm in your arms, the beating heart behind him steady and reassuring and entirely mortal. And still its every pulse distracts him, grounds him, sweeps him up in feelings other than grief.

To be in such a position is most unseemly; he would never have actively consented to it. But it is come upon him now, there is no denying it; having his back to you feels warm, safe. Your arms wrapping around him from behind, pulling him ever closer – he understands now, why you wanted to be held.

Being coddled is… not entirely unpleasant.

It is familiar. Comforting.

Emet-Selch knows he is not a good man. Friends and family and loved ones, gone, and _he_ was the one who survived, as though he was so much more worthy than the ones he’d sworn to protect. So much – so _many_ had depended on him, and they were dead all of them. Not if he had a thousand arms would they ever feel a warm embrace, however he treasured and remembered them. Only Zodiark could help them now, and he’d failed Him too.

He doesn’t deserve to feel something so soft, so gentle and welcoming. He doesn’t deserve to feel like he’s home, when Amaurot is naught but a fading memory in a handful of hearts. But here you are, inexplicably, holding him in your arms.

At long last, Emet-Selch is _home._ He’s back. You’re back by his side as you always were, your calm, easy affection-

…

It’s been too long.

After so much time in the Light, trekking about with you, slaying Lightwardens, keeping your avaricious lusts sated – he smiles at your aether, which prickles at thoughts it does not hear but can still sense the tone of – he’s earned a bit of rest.

His intentions must be clear from how he relaxes – or mayhap, a stray thought suggests, you are simply that sensitive as close as you are, and you can tell the way – the way – you can tell as well as any other Ascian might have been able to.

“Would you like me to sing you to sleep?” Your voice comes from behind him, cool and kind.

He runs his hands over yours where they clasp tenderly onto his sides, firm but unyielding.

“Warrior of Light, Warrior of Darkness, Champion of Hydaelyn… singing me a lullaby?” It’s good you can’t see from where you are. What is this wretched heat burning at his cheeks?

“Just the one, if it please you. I would help you rest.” He doesn’t feel your arms tighten around him, doesn’t feel you move behind him to hold him better, and yet it feels as though you are holding him even more tightly.

His hair rustles softly as you nuzzle into it. As comfortable as this is, it would be far better to see your face. Your eyes.

There’s naught to be done about it. Stubborn creature you are, you won’t be moved now that you’ve a course of action planned.

Emet-Selch closes his eyes, the fool, as though he could hide his smile from himself.

“I close my eyes, tell us why must we suffer…”

The smile falls; his eyes snap open. Your voice is haunting, solemn, filled with a depth of emotion you have no right to possess. A mortal who’s lived a mortal life – what did you know of suffering?

A demand for you to stop forms in his mind but does not reach his lips. Instead, he listens.

“Release your hands, for your will drags us under.”

Your hands hold him no tighter or looser than before, but they feel cool. Acutely aware of his bare skin touching yours, the press of your front against his back, he tenses.

If you can tell – if it bothers you – he cannot tell. It must show on your face.

Arms cross over his chest as though you mean to clutch him to you. Back arching, you curl into him. Closer, closer still.

Never have you felt more faraway.

Far from home.

“My legs grow tired, tell us where must we wander…”

Oh, how long has it been… just _how long_ has he been without you?

How long has he been alone?

Hades knows who he is, and he had known when you were lost that he would have no other. But to know and to experience are different things entirely.

All the lives he has lived, and he is still alone. Wives and mistresses and countless lovers, not a one had meant aught to him. Not one would he consider sharing his existence, his very _soul_ with. Even his own flesh and blood – as though such paltry things meant aught – he looked upon and felt _nothing._

He felt no love, no compassion, no righteousness had moved him as he watched the nations and people he had raised and led burn and die in the fires he had started. _For so long_ had he labored, had he dedicated himself to the Ardor. For twelve thousand years he has labored, for twelve thousand years he has _worked alone,_ his colleagues distant and withdrawn, his companions unknowing mortals who could not even be considered _living_.

And the end was within sight. It was all _so close_ , and then **you** had appeared.

You had appeared, protecting these mortals. Hydaelyn, ever barring the way.

They were all soon to die. An immortal heart could only break once; he had naught left for these pitiful mortal peoples. The people of Amaurot are far more deserving of his sympathy, Zodiark, far more worthy of his service. What had the mortals ever done for the world? What had _Hydaelyn_ ever done for the world?

What kind of world was this? Where those who were noble and willing to sacrifice themselves that the other half of humanity might life – that they should be left for dead and forgotten, their hopes and dreams cast aside for these selfish creatures whose lives faded in heartbeats?

They wanted to live. The people of Amaurot had wanted to live just as desperately as these mortals who so struggled against the inevitable. They could still come back – they weren’t lost – there was an ending, the perfect future where Zodiark returned and took His rightful place, restored His people to their former glory.

“How can we carry on, if redemption’s beyond us?”

Redemption is not out of reach. It will never be out of reach, so long as His eternal existence carried on, be it through His followers or the tales they had told. Zodiark would save them. His love was as unending as the dark itself.

Your aether washes over him. Mourning, longing, a wistful despair that reaches towards the light even as it drowns in darkness.

You cannot see it, but he smiles as he drifts off. Lays his hands over yours, presses back against the tide of your soul with a practiced reassurance, soothing and pulling you into him.

He can almost hear it in the distance – the notes of a piano, old and faded.

Emet-Selch sleeps and dreams of Amaurot.

At last, you are there, holding him – at last, he is home. Everything he loves is returned to as it should be.

It’s still burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot describe the agony I experience when I want to write a songfic but must also confront my own feelings towards songfics but ANSWERS IS SO PERFECT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND-  
> Just please let me write porn or fluff or straight up romance I’m sick of this angst  
> I might write a part II with happier ending idk I’m writing a lot but I’m having a hard time focusing right now :(


	5. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: explicit female WoL here. also emet's a huge fucking tsundere. denial is a river in egypt. he's got it bad.

Ahm Ahreng is _unbearable._ Emet-Selch cannot _believe_ you go there willingly.

Belatedly it does strike him that _you_ can’t believe that you went there, either. There is a sense of frustration he senses welling within you. Coalescing, burning, seething beneath the surface. 

It is something strange, something in your nature which makes it impossible to turn down a request for help.

Or perhaps it is a simpler matter. From the moment you had heard of the Lightwardens, these great and terrible creatures who were so powerful that the very world around them warped at their presence, you’d wanted to hunt them down. His carefree attitude – encouragement, even – only sent you striving further forwards.

Just like –

Just like he would expect from one of Her chosen. A warrior, through and through. It would not make sense for Hydaelyn to choose one who had no innate drive for challenge.

The heat is unbearable. More so than even the Light. Memories of cool, darkened grey-blue buildings filled with familiar shades lurk in the corner of his mind, but he’s all the time in the world to return to his illusions, his dreams. Here and now a figment of the past stands before him – so why not indulge in a more… _tangible_ fantasy?

With no small amount of grudging pettiness does he materialize, soundlessly, directly behind you. A warrior such as you _had_ to be aware of your surroundings. If you jumped out of your skin from shock, it would be a well-deserved lesson. He’s helping you, truly; and out of the kindness of his heart, no less.

So generous he is. You are most lucky to have the favor of one such as him. It’s you who is lucky.

After a few heartbeats he sees you continue forwards without acknowledgement, so he steps right up behind you and quickly covers your eyes with his hands.

“Hello, hero.” Emet-Selch purrs, fully aware you could not mistake him for another, “Care to guess who?”

“Emet-Selch!”

Your voice is jubilant, if exhausted. He could hardly blame you in this heat. Which you had, somehow, _willingly_ gone into. Dragging him along for the search. When you turn to him you are grinning brighter than any Light he’s ever seen.

He pretends he is not hurt that it’s this name you say. How could you know him by any other? It’s certainly better than ‘Solus’.

One day you’ll say ‘Hades’, and this will all –

No, you won’t. This is pointless. He chides himself so much he suspects Elidibus has rubbed off on him. There’s aught for him to do right now in the moment. No time for reminiscing idly.

“Indeed. And what are you doing in this wretched place, hero?”

As he speaks he is pleased to see you wander over to the side of a rock formation, large and isolated such that neither man nor beast would bother passing by. As you open your mouth to answer you lean back into the shade the formation casts; it is not a cave, quite, but it surrounds the two of you well enough.

“Searching for the Lightwarden.”

You’re fighting fit, it’s easy enough to tell – in top condition, really, despite your trekking about this hellish desert. But he can tell by the sweat on your brow, the part of your lips as you gently pant, almost unnoticeably. The heat is getting to you.

“Hm. Would you consider a relaxing break from your duties, then?” He says, closing in, smiling widely, stepping up so that you are between him and the wall.

He almost – but not really – feels bad for his mischievous intentions when you give him that happy, excited look, nodding eagerly and reaching out. Your hands are _burning_ on his skin, not from fever but from the ambient heat, and he realizes the rest of your body must be burning up as well.

Oh, and what heat it is. Oppressive, hanging heavy in the air as might a physical object, burning like molten metal as it bore down on you. He almost pities you, fragile mortal creature that you are. You can’t control your body temperature, how the air around you burned your skin without recourse.

“I’d love it,” You say.

That’s all he needs. Fingers snap, clothes disappear, and he is on you right away. You fall to the floor, but do not meet ground – there will be _no_ copulating in the dirt for him, absolutely not – and find soft sheets beneath you. Either they are layered greatly or there is a mattress beneath then – a _mattress,_ in the desert?! – from how soft it is against your back.

Shade looms above you from a canopy that was not there before. The cloth below you is cool and smooth, but warms quickly.

Even being naked does little to soothe this impossible heat. His overcoat is gone – you cannot imagine how he could have retained that furred thing in this desert – and so is the heavy gown of his more formal regalia. His chest is bare and his legs are covered by a simple pair of white pants that hang loose on his legs.

His gloves, you notice as his hands grasp at your sides, are gone. And his hands are _freezing._

It feels like _heaven._

“How shall I cool you, my sweet?” He says, saccharine and melodic in his tone, even as he ran his fingers all across you. Icy hands, freezing cold, making you shiver against them.

He leans down to kiss at your collarbone, smiling at the gooseflesh prickling down your arms, above your breasts.

Chilling his flesh is easy; easier still when _this_ is your reaction. Of course, it feels like the air around him is absolutely _boiling,_ until he cools that too, just a thin layer, to ensure his comfort without affecting you.

After all, you did look so pleasant like that, panting and writhing. Cheeks flushed and red.

“Your hands…” Breathy and keening do your words strike his ears, your skin searing to the touch.

“I’m already using my hands, love,” He says, leaning down to your face, his gentle breaths of chilled air sending your lashes fluttering, “Surely you cannot be satisfied with only this?”

How his mind races to watch you tense and shiver under his hands, radiating anticipation. Baring yourself thoughtlessly, without reservation. So feverish, so heated, and still so _pleased_ at this joining. You truly are… something else.

He’d promised you relief; and relief you would receive.

To create ice would be nothing; he could easily pull it from the air, drop it on your bared stomach and enjoy the sight of you wriggling beneath the glorious sensation he bestowed upon you. It would be easy. Completely unworthy of his efforts.

Instead he draws on your skin; mayhap he is a tad out of practice, so he takes care, leaves dark marks of aether where he intends it to be. Gentle, feather-light touches, faint enough to make you shiver even without the cold of his hands. Swirling patterns around your breasts that send your fingers spasming, reaching out to clutch at his shoulders, pressing heated palms straight into his body chilled to the bone.

With deliberate and careful touches Emet-Selch drafts his canvas, even for such a minor magic. He spreads his fingers across your torso, stretching them wide to drag them down and leave long lines across your skin, down, down, until he drags his hands to your hips, clutching over them. Cupping them in his hands before letting go, letting fingertips draw clever little trails across the sides of your thighs, even as you rubbed them together in impatience.

The trails he left are almost cool in his wake, but the heat of the surroundings quickly bears onto the sensation, chills chasing his fingers across your skin and dissipating just as quickly. Ephemeral and electric all at once, like lightning making its way through you at the faint lines his fingers drew.

Smiling to himself, he lets his magic manifest, ice appearing on your body in the patterns he’d drawn. Sudden and intense on your flesh, so cold it nearly burned. You can _feel_ every ilm of the pattern, every last place he’d touched you, marked you, the lines he’d drawn blazing back into your senses with an icy clarity.

Your nails dig into his shoulders in response, dragging them down his skin in a visceral parody of his artistry.

It’s strange to think that you – that this receptacle of skin and bone and viscera – is _beautiful,_ coated with ice and sweat and glowing with that inner Light as it is. But that is what comes to mind at the sight of you; tearing away from the vision is unpalatable, wasteful. He’s worked hard to make you like this, after all.

The image of your trembling, panting form, vulnerable and bare beneath him and allowing his hands and magic free reign over your flesh – it is for him and him alone. The fruit of his labor ripe to be consumed at his pleasure. Every sound, every gasp is his to rightfully savor.

You pant below him, but the sound is softer now, not the deep, labored breaths of one burdened by the oppressive heat. Short, gasping things, trills almost like laughter as you meet his eyes, still so blue and pretty and filled with affection. Such trust in your eyes as your flesh burns at the touch of his aether made ice in exquisite relief.

“Still,” He murmurs, leaning down to kiss you, watching your face light up as he nears, “Just my hands.”

You don’t understand what he means, which is of course as it should be, in your lust-filled, hyper sensory state, icy relief painted on your skin while the heat bore down on you still. A hint is all you’ll receive – his tongue slips into your mouth – _so hot_ and dry and raw with your panting, the slick, foreign muscle plays alongside your own, strangely cool and thoroughly lubricated.

He tastes delicious – completely intentionally – and your mouth cannot help but respond. Emet-Selch is rich and sweet and sour all at once, the taste very lightly acidic to sting your tongue even as you salivate, licking and pursing your lips about him, eager for more. He lets you drink, of course, more and more.

A cool drink that only barely sates you; your mouth is awash with his taste. It’s delightful on your parched tongue, you savor it even as you drink deep. Perfect and tangy, but like no fruit you could name; a blend of sweet and sour so surreal you could do naught but want for more.

Parting, his smiles, leaning back so to break the thin trail of saliva between your lips, sticky and viscous with his aether. He cannot have your voice ragged already. You had yet to speak, to cry out his name, to beg. 

“Just my hands,” He says again, caressing down your body with those hands that still made you shiver, “Cannot possibly be enough.”

Down and down he drags his lips across your stomach and past your navel, feeling ice brush past his face as he does so. Your moan at his touch freely; louder, now that your throat is not dry.

“Can I not taste you, as well?” He looks up at your face from between your legs, eyes dark with lust and heady intent. His smile is just waiting to be pressed to the tender pink flesh below him. Waiting to devour.

Only with great effort do you lift your head enough to look him in the eyes. Golden even in the shade. You could look at them forever, if only you weren’t desperate for his touch.

“Yes.”

He holds still, though, because _of course_ he does.

“Please,” You plead, “Emet-Selch. _Please._ ”

“I do love how you sound when you beg.” You’re not sure how you could sound, except maybe desperate. He doesn’t sound satisfied.

You feel his breath on your arousal between your legs, wet and tender and bared to the hot air. And then his mouth descends upon you. _Ravenous._

At first he only kisses at it, parting the folds with an icy finger, sending a jolt through your body at the point of contact. It soon fades from your awareness as his lips unfurl against your entrance, moving and pursing against your folds, just barely teasing against your clit. Brushes of vibrant pleasure wrack you gently at the kiss; the barest taste of what is to come.

His tongue presses into you, the silky give of your walls letting it slide easily in, but it’s _cold,_ it’s _chilled,_ ice dripping into your deepest, hottest recesses. Without any thought on your part your legs shudder and squirm at his sides; he pulls his arms around them to still you.

It’s like nothing you’d ever felt before; the newness of this coldness piercing through your lower half like nothing else, but the intensity of it brings only more pleasure. The cold drag of his tongue inside you, wriggling and sliding and pressing at every angle, into every ilm of your being. Drawing out every last whimper and moan you are capable of making.

He likes the long ones best, you suspect, for moments after you let one out you feel him repeat it; a hard press of that slick muscle into that place inside you. Dragging his tongue across the spot in a long lick, the texture of it pushed into your walls even as he slid across them easily. Your moan dies into a whimper, ending with a low choke as his withdraws, mouth parting from you for just a moment.

Cool – the bottom half of you feels _so cool_ now, slick with his saliva and your own natural lubrication, chilled from the inside out and bared to the boiling air. It’s not for long that he stays back, descending upon you once more, lips working against your folds. Teasing your flesh, kneading it and moving his lips against them, a pleasant caress to contrast with icy penetration.

You can’t help but reach down, clutch at his hair in your fingers. It’s soft, so soft, like you’ve taken hold of the clouds in the skies themselves as an uncontrollable storm of pleasure ran through you below.

Emet-Selch lets you feel his teeth against your folds. Not hard, not biting, not against the slippery pink skin there; only a subtle press of hardness against where his lips had been, barely even scraping. Flesh that had been rendered raw with the attentions of lips and tongue now feeling true sharpness, a burst of pleasure in an entirely new direction. It’s more than enough to draw out a long, low whine from you.

If he hadn’t known better, he might suspect you are a touch frightened. But he knows the feel that thrill makes when is travels down your body, knows how it bolts through your spine until it emerges, high and needy in your throat, from your lips.

Every sound is music to his ears, evidence of his effect on you, a litany to go along with the perfect taste. Without hesitation does he delve in again, and again; the feel of your insides clenching about his tongue, the wet heat surrounding him, silken against his mouth.

To describe your taste in mortal terms would be naught but a mortal insult. How could the word ‘sweet’ possibly express how desperately he felt his mouth salivate for more? How could ‘sour’ mean anything close to the way his tongue burned and writhed and pressed desperately into the sensation? What was ‘salt’ when he could taste and taste and grow only thirstier still?

No, you are your own taste, your own flavor, completely and utterly unique to this moment here and now. How sweet it would be, for it to never end. For a moment he thinks you taste blue, but the feel of you clenching, harder and harder still, shivering as you climb towards release, tears him mercifully from the thought.

The fingers carding through his hair are gentle despite their eagerness; he’s almost surprised you haven’t tugged him forward yet. He leans back, away, leaving you empty and bereft of his touch. Just to feel you yank him back.

You don’t. For several heartbeats all he hears is your pants, heavy in the desert air. Your body twitching with unfulfilled arousal. Shivering still in part from the ice made of his aether, lovely and glittering like crystal all down your bare torso and legs.

“E-Emet…”

It’s not the name he wants to hear, he tells himself. Even as his treacherous mortal heartstrings tug at the silly diminutive, at the name you’d shortened-

So long had it been-

“Emet, I swear if you don’t go down there right now, I’m taking care of it myself.”

Fingers digging into his scalp draw his attention well enough; the words only have him nearly chuckling to himself.

“Why don’t you make me, hero?” He says, completely unaffected. “Brute force would suit a savage like you.”

Mayhap he means to play it up a bit. The emperor act. See how he might-

Before the thought is completed, he is forced forward, lips once more sealed against your folds now reddened and raw with stimulation. Pulsing and sore at his attentions and _dying_ for release.

“So that’s how you like it, is it?” You don’t let up, don’t permit him to answer. He has no wish to.

He parts his mouth to your flesh, this time sucking hard, drawing yet more blood to the surface, bringing the pounding in your arousal to its peak. The heat would have been uncomfortable, _unbearable_ even, but his aether clings to you as ice, and the heat within is heavy, pleasant, even.

Swirling his tongue through the folds, he feels out for your clit, teasing it. Dipping in and out of your entrance, squirming against you as you let loose the most _amazing_ of groans. Whining. Whimpering. Nails dig into his skull.

Oh, how he’ll remember these sounds, this taste. How very pleasant it is.

He hums in satisfaction against you, not entirely for your own benefit. The light vibration of his mouth against you pulls high-pitched cries from your throat, and more still of his own name.

“ _Emet.”_

It’s a simple matter to twirl his tongue around your clit, lightning striking at the point of contact. A quick burst of buzzing pleasure to add to the pulsing of blood in your lower half, how it pounds with need and desperation.

“ _Emet!”_

Again you say his name, and again he wants to hear it. And again, and again, and again.

He draws your folds into his mouth as he can, sucking hard, flicking his tongue over and over and _over_ your clit, alternating between that and pressing against it with tongue and teeth and kissing and-

 _“ **Emet!** ”_ You cry out in your final release. He feels you shudder around him, feels your cry heightened with euphoria and affection and a desperate devotion that had you clinging to him still.

He would rather hear his real name, of course.

But Emet-Selch is not a liar, so he does not bother to tell himself he wasn’t moved by your cries all the same.

One day… perhaps… you’ll call out the right name… one day.

He’s not a liar, but he still doesn’t admit to himself that if you never call him Hades… he thinks that might be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet has nightmares about Amaurot being destroyed  
> I have nightmares that they’re going to break into my house while I’m asleep at 2 in the afternoon and take me to comma prison
> 
> Also I don't know how to write orgasms so there's that too
> 
> hope ya'll enjoyed, this is my explicit smut #2. If any of you guys also read Gentle Darkness, you could do me an awesome favor by letting me know if I've improved <3


	6. One, Two, Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch sees the Auracite in your hand. Emet-Selch falls.

Urianger, some time ago, before you defeated the Lightwarden Titania and met Emet-Selch, gave you an Auracite by which you might slay any potential Ascian threats you came upon.

Undoubtedly the man is cursing himself at this very moment, Emet-Selch considers, and then goes back to staring at you with feigned disinterest.

 _Real_ disinterest, really. He’s only pretending to fake it. You’re of no threat to him, famed Ascian-slayer or no.

“My dear, what _are_ you pulling _that_ out for?” He asks, because he really has to. The smug look on your face doesn’t particularly indicate that he shall like the answer.

Well, he’ll perhaps _enjoy_ it, at least.

Eventually.

“I thought I should show it to you.” Your answer comes without a hint of hesitation or malice.

Once more, he reminds himself, that simply killing you would bring him no closer to success. The Light held within you is well-contained and may die when you do, ruining any chances of Rejoining for this world for a long time to come. Phrased so, it becomes clear it would be unwise to allow you to come to harm before your time. Impermissible, even.

You must not come to harm.

He stares at the white crystal so gaudily lined with silver metal. Such a pretty thing, an ephemeral prison destined to end along with the being it held captive.

“And now that you’ve shown it to me,” Emet-Selch does not tear his eyes, yellow and piercing, from the crystal, “Will you hand it over?” 

You blink.

“Hm? What will you give me for it?” You ask, the teasing, the coy taunt in your tone unmistakable and thoroughly unacceptable.

“What,” Emet-Selch does not enjoy dancing to your tune – _there is **nothing** to enjoy about this at all _– but fair is fair, you’ve danced to his, “Do you want for it?”

“A kiss.” Your tone is blithe and charming.

He’s not sure whether to be horrified or ecstatic that you actually sound serious _._ Without his permission, his lips lift into a smile.

“Two kisses,” He says.

“ _Three.”_

Laughter bursts forth from him, and he can’t even chide himself because look – look how bright, how lovely your face is! Radiant in its joy.

It hurts, in his chest, but it doesn’t. A strange pain that encompassed his core entirely, a tremor in his bones, deeper than a shiver, resonating through his soul. It’s not as bad as it could be – you’re still smiling at him.

The Light is too strong here, is what it is. You did so enjoy the Greatwood and its forestry, and its flowers and foliage. So green and vibrant and living. Perhaps that’s why you’d called him out to meet you on this patch of flowers. So vibrantly blue are they that they near glow in the false Light.

Such pretty, worthless, ephemeral things. 

You hand him the Auracite easily, without concern. Not a hint of a tremor in your hand or a grasp just a touch too tight. Freely do you give your only weapon against him into his hand. For three kisses.

“You’re a terrible negotiator,” You tell him, lowering your face to bat your lashes at him impishly, “I would have done it for four.”

No, he thinks. He can’t fall here. He must not.

“Handing this over so easily when it’s your only means of doing me any lasting harm…” He tilts his head, looking into eyes the shade of the _bluest_ of blues.

You smile at him, wryly. “Are you calling me a fool?”

So he is. ‘Twould be of no use to say it, but –

“Yes.” He tells you, for reasons that yet escape him.

“It’s an effect of the Auracite,” You say, nodding sagely. “And now it’s all yours.”

“As though I would keep it on my person.”

You shrug, “It can’t be easily destroyed. Even shattered, the crystal retains its power and its effects; you’d only have to worry about hiding _more_ Auracites, albeit smaller ones, which people might find and use individually. Maybe make more with them.”

“…Whatever I _would_ do, rest assured I would not _tell you_ of it.” He hadn’t known that about the crystal. How fortunate you had thought to inform him.

“Hide it away in that Chrysalis you lot like to hang out in, perhaps.” You muse, and he chokes out a laugh to hear you actually know of the place somehow – and referred to their assembly so casually – “Take it to the moon for your god to watch over. Or maybe just toss it into the deepest depths of the ocean, where no light reaches, and it would be impossible to locate.”

Emet-Selch swallows, because that’s exactly what he intends to do. What he intended to do. Why are you so good at this? Why does your mind go to the places his own would go to, so easily? Do you know him so well –

No. They had been obvious guesses, in any case.

“As I said, I wouldn’t tell you of it. And if you’ve traded it to me, it’s mine to do with as I will.”

“That it is,” You trill with happiness, “Once I have my kisses.”

Running his tongue between his lips, he nods, smiling that half-smile that affects you so. “As you wish.”

He cups your face in his hands, gently, ever so gently. The stroke of his gloves so very smooth and impartial on your bare skin.

Tilting your head forward, at just the right incline, he presses his lips to your forehead. Long enough for you to feel the warmth of his mouth and his breath brushing your hair. Short enough to still see the reaction written plain on your face when he parts.

His smile widens. Ah, to see you falling for the same old trick. Some things never change –

…Better get this over with.

“One,” He says, and he leans away to meet your glare with just enough amusement.

And then he swoops right back in, turning your face straight to the side that his mouth meets the side of your face. The muscles of your face twitch beneath his lips; even soft skin sharpened with your ire.

“Two…”

He presses another kiss to your other cheek, rumbling with delight as he senses you wriggling impatiently. “And three.”

“My poor, pitiful hero. You really should have held out for four,” He says with unrepentant smugness, pulling back.

Emet-Selch expects your annoyance, your frustrated claims of deception, and perhaps he even expects a tiny measure of heartfelt pleading. It isn’t as though he _wants_ to hear it, mind, it’s just the logical thing to expect from someone who’d been so rightfully cheated.

He does not expect you to smile at him. An absolutely _wicked_ grin that spells only trouble.

“Aaaaaah, perhaps,” You drawl, running your hands up his sides, “But if you recall, Emet-Selch…”

He no longer likes it when you say his name. Not like that. _He does not like it._

Nor does he like that gleam in your eyes, so alike to his own, glittering with success and pleasure and such pretty petty clever tricks –

He does not like it.

“I didn’t say I wanted _you_ to kiss _me._ ”

…It is an obvious sort of loophole. Anyone could have thought of it, really. He’s still not pleased, but a laugh emerges from him nonetheless.

Arms, warm and clingy and welcoming, wrap about him, pulling him into you. Your hands meet the back of his head, burying deep into his hair, caressing it as you pull him closer.

“I didn’t say how _long_ each kiss would be, either.”

Emet-Selch doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand in the slightest. _You_ are the one who is Sundered, and he is yet Unbroken.

So why does he feel so… _full?_

Perhaps it is this wretched, useless, _traitorous_ mortal heart beating out of his chest, he thinks to himself. Ignoring the way his aether hums and pulses in tune with yours, reaching out always to be met with warm acceptance. How does his heart feel so full, so overflowing, when by all rights you have far less to give than he does?

These thoughts don’t stop his chest from nearly bursting at the sight of your grin.

And in an instant he is on the ground beneath you, your lips sealed well over his own, your warmth covering his entirely. Aether reaching out to entwine with his so freely, so easily. So wonderful and perfect and so _much._ How could there be so _much_ to feel from you? For him?

Lying there in your affections, basking in your radiance like the sun.

The Light really is unbearable. Beautiful and aethereal, powerful beyond compare, almost otherworldly enough to echo a time when the land was saturated with magic. When the world was whole.

He doesn’t admit he’d have agreed upon five kisses, a thousand, _endless_ kisses and you could keep the Auracite if it meant you would look at him again. Touch him again. Give him _more._

The Ascian Emet-Selch does not fall to your cunning ways or your awesome power or your pretty Auracite.

He falls to _you_. He will always fall to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ascians really are terrible negotiators, huh?


	7. Sticky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll never get rid of him, now.

“Those spots on your face…” He’s not sure why he’s asking this, _now_ of all times.

These tender moments when you call upon him, but your lust is absent entirely. Emet-Selch is no speaker, he is not accustomed to having to fill the silence, but you seem content merely to look upon him, to smile and hug and kiss him, or tamer still expressions of affection like wringing his hand in yours as you wandered seemingly aimlessly about your surroundings.

Emet-Selch is not the speaker, but he does fancy himself a pleasant conversationalist. Certainly, the quiet is not entirely distressful. Not with you here. But to come out and hold your hand and walk about so carelessly seems such a waste. He may as well fill the silence.

Just filling the silence. He is not uncomfortable. He is most certainly not embarrassed.

You smile at him, brows raised, waiting for him to continue. Really, how did the Scions tolerate this stoicism? And how rarely did they ask for your opinion or make small talk with you, to have you used to speaking so rarely?

“Those… freckles,” He says, letting his features pinch into displeasure, “They do not match your skin.”

“Hm? They’re not freckles. They’re face paint.”

“What?” You’d painted freckles on your face?

It would explain how they’re so bright on your skin. Like starts dusting the night sky, scattered about your cheekbones, faint but unmistakable and shimmering.

“It’s paint. See?”

Without warning you grasp his hand, guiding his gloved fingers right between your lips.

His mouth drops open without prompting, at the sight of his fingers in your mouth. Your tongue slavering over the cloth that covered his hands, wetting it, and he can’t feel a single point of contact. What is – what are you – this is absurd.

It’s too – _surprising_ for him to yank his hand back. Too _surprising,_ too _sudden._ Mere shock is what keeps him from yanking his hand away, out from your grasp.

After a moment you take his hand out yourself, the pads of the glove’s fingers mostly soaked through, and move by his wrist to slide the wet cloth across your cheek.

A shimmering gold rubs off, clear and vibrant against the white of his gloves.

You’ve always loved that color.

“My dear,” He purrs, drawing his hand back with more hesitance than he would have liked, “If you’d wished to use your mouth so, I could certainly have suggested something else you could have put in it.”

Blue eyes meet his own with unfathomable vividness, deep and beautiful and far too alluring.

“If you like,” You return, tilting your head to the side and leaning forwards. “I’d be pleased to oblige.”

You let your hands slip under his overcoat, then behind, then toy at the ties of his robes. Only toying, only playing. Staring up at him with those patient eyes, as though someone as short-lived as you could know what patience is. Waiting for his response.

It's not that he has never been in this situation before. It is that he has never had reason to be _honest_ in his desires. He’s _been_ honest before, of course, as an Emperor no one would question, always in positions of power. When he did not feel like it, he did not indulge.

And the pleasures of the flesh had lost any pithy charm they had eons ago. Emet-Selch longs, yes, but not for this.

“It means little to me, my dear.” He says, “I care not for such things. I was only teasing.”

You look at him strangely. “Does your body not experience pleasure like mine does? Can you feel it?”

“I am able to feel with this form as well as any other mortal man, yes.” Why do you have such a vested interest in this? “I would not seek it out, nor ask it of you. I derive my pleasures from elsewhere.”

“Does that mean you don’t enjoy it, then…?”

 _Why_ are you being so stubborn about this? Emet-Selch cannot imagine you actually _want_ to put his cock in your mouth. Your pointed questions are quite clearly headed elsewhere, and yet when he denies interest you only prod him more. Just what kind of answer will satisfy you? What are you hoping to hear?

“Certainly I do,” He admits, with the about the same fervor that a child might have while thanking a parent for cleaning their room. “But enough to actively pursue it so? I am well satisfied from our normal couplings, and moreso in the ways that truly matter.”

Piercing blue eyes meet his own.

“ **I** pursue it. Form you. **I** like it that much.”

“You like _Hydaelyn._ ” He says, shocked as soon as the words come from his mouth – but there’s no point letting you know that. “And many other things which I find distasteful. The point is, I do not require this of you. I take my satisfaction in other ways.”

“I know.” You press yourself closer to him, then closer, your aether rushing suddenly into his senses. “You like this, right? I’ve felt you do this before, to me. Let me do it for you.”

You’ll be the death of him. Emet-Selch knows you’ll be the death of him, and here he is, standing still, just letting it happen. Even Elidibus might spare a laugh, upon hearing of his demise.

In the meantime, the warm press of your soul on his, foreign but intimately familiar energy coursing through him, running over each of his senses as you so loved to explore his body; this is a good death, if ever there was such a thing.

He feels his robes loosen and slip, his coat pushed back off his shoulders in gentle, insistent movements.

Without noticing it he’s backed into the bed, your easy press as you undress him sending him tumbling onto his back, legs still hanging over the side.

He’s almost impressed; you’ve divested him of the entirety of his heavy imperial regalia with just a few moments of heavy petting. Of course, you’d had to – if he’d been wearing the gown when his back hit the bed you would have had to let him up to take it off.

How _lewd_.

Not nearly as lewd as your face, he considers to himself as heat flushes his face, his entire body – a natural reaction – when you meet his eyes from your place at the bedside, kneeling. That brilliant blue – he will never tire of it, truly.

And that _wicked_ smile you give him when you take his cock in your hands is absolutely unbelievable. The sensation of it, even – cool, soft hands wrapped around his growing erection, like ice against the heat of it. All the more freezing by the blood he feels pooling there, energizing him, that pleasant, tiresome, absolutely _terrible_ feeling he knew to be mortal arousal.

It's smooth in your hands – and you do notice that, down there, Emet-Selch is entirely hairless. Eerily so. You give him a look.

Emet-Selch rolls his eyes from up there, still laid flat on his back. Leave it to him to emulate such a composed mannerism in such a thoroughly debauched state. “My dear, you forget my nature. Unlike you, I have no particular attachment to this form I wear. I wasn’t about to let you go through some awful experience with the myriad obnoxious faults inherent in this flesh vessel.”

That’s more than a little worrying. If that’s what he thought of his _own_ body, what about yours…?

“Oh, don’t start with that, hero.” Your quivering, hesitant aether – usually so lively and ready to meet his own – betrays your feelings immediately.

It’s almost better than before, easier to tell with this openness that positions and personal histories had long since denied you – but before you had been – there’s no point to this.

“I should not have to tell you I care naught for that body you inhabit.” It’s not a lie _._ More of a half-truth, but your aether does not spring towards him and instead remains stagnant, stilled in place by worries over such pathetic, trivial things. It’s bizarre, and no small part horrifying. To think that _all_ mortals conduct themselves this way. “Oh, certainly I can appreciate it aesthetically. But in other ways, such as mortals do; that, I was never made to care for.”

His hands make their way into your hair, brushing through it gently as he spoke. “Come now. You wanted to do this for me, yes?”

“Yes, I do.” You say, and the brush of your breath on his cock sends pangs up his spine.

…It suddenly occurs to him what he’s said, and Emet-Selch quickly follows up his words.

“If all you want is to do something I would like…” What he’s saying feels strange, so strange _,_ in his mouth, but he is incapable of telling lies to you, not like this. “Then I should like for you to stop sulking. I care not how. Just wipe that wretched hurt expression off your face, or tell me how to do it myself.”

And just like that, the hesitance disappears, the concern on your face flickering from existence as that thoroughly debauched grin works its way back onto your lips. Never mind. He liked you better before.

Emet-Selch couldn’t lie to _you._ He could say whatever he felt like to his treacherous, lewd, sinfully aroused and deliriously lustful self. The fool _._

This thought process is completely derailed, predictably, by a pang in his nether regions.

You lick a slow line up the length of him and he hisses, the entirety of his focus drawn to the sensation like nothing he’d ever experienced before. Perhaps it’s your insistent aether pressing down on him, bearing into his and stoking the flames of desire with equal heat, perhaps not.

Emet-Selch had imagined himself above such pleasures; he discovers, when your lips descend onto him, that he is quite mistaken.

Your aether moves as one with you, as a wall of your own essence. Slamming into the core of him as you took his cock in your hand, fingertips just barely running up and down the length of him in a strangely imposed distance as your soul bore down upon him. Whether this is how it feels for you, when he is the one bestowing pleasure and intimacy, or if this is only the recreation of it your own personal abilities allow you; distinguishing which is the case is nigh impossible in the moment.

Lust, need, _devotion_ – how has this come to be, how could you want so desperately for him to be happy – the feelings rock into him, slamming through him as surely as lust tugs with your fingers on his cock. Every fiber of his being diluted with your own impossibly blue aether, inundating him with desire.

It surrounds him just as easily as that wet, soft, perfect mouth that enveloped his pulsing arousal, and without his active thought his aether coalesces _right there,_ drawn to his cock as surely as all the blood in this body. Drawn to the point of contact between him and you, where your lips squeezed about tender skin flushed and hard at his excitement.

And _oh,_ does your aether simply _envelop_ him – yes, as he liked indeed.

Lost in an ocean, encompassed completely in your mouth, your aether, your open affection and perpetual smiles, you, you, _you._ You’re all around him, everywhere, slick and hot and smooth where his pulse is pounding, where this body cries out at the touch of your lips and his soul cries out at the wash of your aether.

You’re there in his hands, soft and feathery hair brushing in his fingertips, head bobbing up and down and bringing his hands with it. You’re there on his chest, feeling down his abdomen with arms that run along his body and support yourself in equal measure, always touching, always _feeling, **every ilm of him.**_

And in every ilm of him, you’re there too, soul bearing down on him with every glance of those wicked beautiful blue eyes. He just catches them a bit, at one moment then another, but soon your aether coalesces around him, even as his own does so within him, adding even more impossible pressure to the thrum of lust in his erection.

Your name escapes his lips without any thought on his part, a long, low moan he doesn’t want to remember making, but when at the sight of your eyes, he can’t remember why he’d care.

Blue eyes glint at him and soon – soon it’s blue everywhere he looks, the whole world is tinted blue and it’s _beautiful,_ indescribable. Every word you’d said to him, every time you’d looked at him and smiled and laughed, every time he’d felt you reach for his hand, every bit of warmth he’d felt from you against him –

It's like he’s being held, now; but in the throes of lust there is nothing he wants more than release. To paint your world in his color, to give you a taste of this experience he felt that had no inclination, no vector or magnitude, it defied all description, there were no words for it but that it is _you_ , your aether, your being around him. Everything in his mind, that made up your own being.

He could have waxed poetic forever if you hadn’t decided to take him deeper, even, breaking all rational thought in his mind with the bliss of pure sensation. Sucking enough to make hollows in your cheeks, the smooth insides of your mouth brushing against him as you slid him back out.

It's a weird feeling, having it in your mouth. You’re not entirely sure if this is by design or not, but despite the hardness, the pulse you felt only too desperately running through it, amplified by his aether and your sensitivity to it – his cock is almost… smooth, not quite soft, but it has a pleasant give to it when you press your tongue into it.

You can feel the texture of skin against your tongue, your lips, but it’s got the… consistency of rubber, hard, certainly, and dense. But not rigid, not like a stone in your mouth; hot and smooth and almost tender like his cries as you drag your tongue against him.

 ** _That_** is absolutely divine. Hearing Emet-Selch cry out for you, moan your name even; the feeling is beyond words. You steal a glance or two, and his eyes are on you, his eyes are _completely on you._ Half-lidded and glazed with lust, dilating madly with arousal and need.

Pursing your lips against him, just to let him feel the ring of your mouth on his cock, elicits a high whine you had no _idea_ he could make. It’s a music you never want to stop hearing. Your heart thuds in your chest almost as hard as his blood pulses in his arousal, heated and ready and so very very close.

It tastes like nothing you’ve ever tasted before. Bright and sweet and so rich, so flavorful just a drop of it buzzes against your tongue. It’s almost like caramel, thick and rich, but still plenty liquid in its viscosity.

His release is delicious on your lips. You’d almost be willing to lick it all up, but he’d been in your mouth when he came. Licking your lips, you part from his cock, leaning back as his hands fall from your hair.

“This is…” You look up at him and another flavor comes to mind – honey eyes, lurid and heady with lust and satisfaction, “It tastes… good?”

He _shrugs,_ the impossible man. “Of course it does. You had it in your mouth, so you were going to taste it. Would you have preferred it bitter?"

Your eyes narrow right away, and you feel him shudder slightly beneath you, even as his aether clings to you like caramel, like honey. Sticky. You climb up, towering over his body as you straddle him, to meet his face with your own. To meet him with a smirk like the one he liked to wear all the time.

“Oh? You wanted it to be pleasant for me, did you? Does that mean…”

No. No, no; too late Emet-Selch realizes his mistake. It’s impossible to convince you otherwise now. Even if it means more satisfaction, to endure the humiliation of you knowing just how much he…

“…You enjoyed it?”

He did _not,_ but unfortunately, he couldn’t tell you that, because he’d never been any good at lying to you –

“Perhaps.” Is all he can make out, averting his gaze, but you are, predictably, not an onze deterred.

The laughter against his neck makes it all worth it, really. Bearing through with this silly mortal charade of pleasure. He’d _pretend_ to enjoy it. For your sake.

Wet, almost sticky lips meet his cheek, and he almost convinces himself he’s annoyed by it.

“You did enjoy it, and you want me to do it again.” He can _hear_ the smile in your voice, it’s that loud.

Stop teasing him. He could die from this. Evil, evil hero.

Your turn his face to meet your eyes, and he’s immediately beset with just how happy you look, that radiant glow on your face like you had just partaken of liquid sunlight – is this what his aether is, to you?

Is that smile on his face, right now? Is he glowing, but in your color, with a paradoxically warm, beautiful blue lighting up the shadows of his face?

“If you wish.”

“I do!” You cry in joy, and fall upon him, sweetness still sticky on your lips.

He licks it all off. Sticky, clingy, vicious stuff, this aether.

Fool hero. To keep smiling like that, keep showering him in this affection. Letting him cling to you so.

You’ll never get rid of him, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you give Emet the succ so good he goes fucking colorblind. God this was titled "freckles" in the draft, it literally started out having nothing to do with porn just fluffy Emet dealing with the realities of the character creator  
> I am just all around the porn/angst/fluff map these days, ain’t I? you would not believe how much angst for other fics i've got going on  
> At least tsundere!Emet is seemingly here to stay  
> Also I wrote this from comma prison  
> Don’t worry they’re letting me go soon classes start on Monday :’)


	8. Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...either mad or lying.

He sees it, once; a discarded scrap of paper tossed to the wayside, falling out of your pack which always looked to be filled to bursting, and somehow seemed to contain more than anything its size ever should be able to.

It is impossible and hilarious all at once. A cruel joke, to describe it most fittingly.

Your handwriting is the same. Even in another language, another script, he would recognize that scrawl anywhere. The _nights_ he had spent pouring over your papers, marking them up and scrawling down notes of his own.

That one time you’d taken notes at each and every meeting for two weeks because he had been out surveying land for the city’s expansion.

Of course, had he _known_ it would take so long he would have told Pashtarot exactly where he could shove his requests, the land had been near completely infested with monsters and he had needed to call in _Lahabrea_ for assistance, the _humiliation –_

…Your handwriting is the same. Grasping the scraps with his aether as they tumbled in the wind, he brought them to his hands to examine more closely.

_“Airships – Eulmoran presence confirmed.”_

Succinct, capturing only the necessary details while preserving a cohesive message. It is like looking back, on your old notebooks, filled with pages and pages of commentary.

Why Nabriales’s latest investigation was going to cause a paradox and destroy the universe, why Pashtarot’s plan for changing Bureau policies was _never_ going to get past Lahabrea, why won’t Igeyorhm stop giving you those suggestive looks shut up Igeyorhm you didn’t see anything, why are you reading my notes again Hades, _stop that_ –

_“Oh? And what did Igeyorhm not see?”_

_“Hades! Even if it is not expressly forbidden, flaunting our relationship like that is just…”_

_“Cruel? Dangling before them the sweet fruit which they will never have the opportunity to taste? Basking openly in the sunlight which shall not touch any of their gloomy faces for centuries to come? Radiating delight, a warmth they can only barely feel and know that it is naught but a flicker of the all-consuming inferno of our combined passion?”_

_The scoff at the beginning of your words gives you away – a laugh, crumpled up and discarded as you try to plough through with your response._

_“I was **going** to say grossly unprofessional. But if you want to be dramatic about it, I suppose… Tormenting them with visions of a joy forever out of their reach?”_

_He smiles so hard his face hurts._

_“We shall make a dramatist of you yet, my love.”_

_He laughs, and so do you, and you kiss, and you are happy._

_Together._

He had grown lonely after you left the Convocation. He wanted to talk to you. Wanted to see you.

But you were not there (you would never be there again) so your words in those pages, every last scrawl he could find, every phrase you had put together, the messages you had meant to send to your own mind in the future.

The scrips of your thoughts all collected into several piles on his desk, hopelessly disorganized as he poured over them again and again and again.

Every last piece of you that remained to him. It was not enough, could never be enough. Even the whole of you could not have been enough; not unless he had you for all eternity.

Emet-Selch starts, paper crumpled in his gloves. Why does he feel the urge to take them off? To feel this paper on his skin? Bizarre.

_“Hills of Amber Trolley – behind gate?”_

That one looked promising. You probably will end up pursuing that trolley, and that pursuit will inevitably mean you getting tied up in the affairs and drudgery of the short-lived, fragmented souls of this world. You’d hear their troubles out, cry for them, cry with them, hold their hands and see to their troubles.

People all around, everywhere, even on the Source, Rejoined as it was; they are pathetic, all of them. They all made you struggle for it, made you help them and hindered your every step all the while.

Each and every one caught up in their own _deep internal struggle,_ as though their tiny lives and petty trifles were so much more important than the fate of the world.

It’s unthinkable! **Unbelievable!** You had to go through all this effort just to get them to _help you_ to _help them!_ And still you went on, as though you thrived on being made to serve their every little whims. As though one man’s individual struggle could be weighed the same as a nation’s.

The fate of a world – and through it, all worlds _–_ hung in the balance, and here you are, asking around for tips on how to get past a gate. No doubt you will bend over backwards to help the locals with this or that terrible plight along the way.

One woman had lost a child, perhaps, another man had lost his wife, someone somewhere had died like the mortal they were and you would absolutely be compelled to listen in and lend your ear to their emotional struggles while the Light consumed this land.

You’d help them, so that you could have the privilege of saving their world.

How very _heroic_ of you.

_“Like a hero from stories! You always **are** there to rescue me, Hades. Whatever would I do without you?” _

_You tease him, but his chest fills with warmth nonetheless._

_“Die, I expect. What was it Lahabrea threatened to do to you if this was not done by midnight? Boil you in oil?”_

_“I would have gotten community service, I think. Elidibus owes me a favor.”_

_He smiles. Or had he been smiling from the start? It is hard to tell, and he is not sure there is a difference – he is always smiling around you._

_“He had better. I went over the calculations you pointed out, and ‘twas his work that was in error. You must have known that already, though.”_

_“The fault was my own. This was my project; I should have been checking everything to start with.”_

_“Generous of you to spare his pride.”_

_Too generous, he doesn’t think, because he would never accuse a fellow member of the Convocation of such a petty thing as jealousy. He does not think that he had seen the way Elidibus had looked at you. The way **Lahabrea** had looked at you. He does not think it at all. _

_Hades just wants to make you feel better._

_“Ha! I shall have him working this off next time Mitron needs assistance with his live projects.”_

_Your smile is more than enough to clear the misbegotten suspicions from his mind._

_He would do that himself if it made you happy. Even if it left his robes smelling like fish, and he needed to fashion entirely new ones by the end of it._

_Luckily, he does not have to, because Elidibus will be doing it._

**_He_ ** _will be enjoying some well-earned rest and relaxation with you, after that difficult night you’d spent. Working so hard. Let him loosen you up, love, here, take your mask off, your robes, just relax…_

_He almost wishes Elidibus or Lahabrea would sabotage you again, just so he could hear you call him a hero._

_Hades is not a hero._

How bizarre. Truly. The paper in his hands is ash now, having been set alight, burnt to a crisp.

Emet-Selch wonders – if he were to try, very, very hard, would he be able to pretend to himself that it was the desert heat, the everlasting light above, and mayhap just a tad bit the force of his glare, that did the deed?

_“Gondola from cliffs – potential death trap.”_

Aloud, he laughs.

So blunt, straightforward with that hint of sarcastic, blasé exaggeration. Though it would hardly be an exaggeration in mortal terms, even the you of here and now is far above a being who could die to such a thing.

And suddenly, from nowhere, he thinks he can hear it. Your voice in his mind, suggesting the note’s dictation aloud.

_“We can try the gondola. Might die, but eh.”_

Laughter spills even more from his lips, and more, and he quickly teleports away, retreats to his shadowy place in the Tempest where the light cannot reach him. Where you cannot see him.

So carefree. So fearless. Of course it is amusing, to hear mortals valuing their lives so little. He laughs. To hear you act so dismissive, so indifferent to the prospect of your own death, which is rightly how those around you _should_ be acting, with how worthless and ephemeral their lives were.

_“It will be over before you know it.”_

_“That does not make me feel better.”_

_“It was not meant to. It was meant to get you to **do it** , already.”_

_He had not realized how often you had smiled around him until you stopped. Then he sees the truth; how terrible it is, how his very heart trembles at your indifferent face, at the sight of your mask with no sign of pleasure beneath it._

_If you are not happy, his heart cannot be at ease._

_“I am alive **right now**. The truth is, I will only ever be alive right now; it is all I will ever have. All any of us will ever have. We might die tomorrow, we might die in the next few minutes.”_

_What can he say? What can he say? You already know the plan, you already know what is happening, that something must be done._

_How could you have all the same knowledge he has, but come to a different conclusion? He does not understand. Your mind had been indistinguishable from his own, once. He could have finished your sentences as you spoke them._

_Now you… he…_

_“We are all living in the moment, Hades, and anyone who believes otherwise is either mad or lying.”_

_He would not lie to you. He would never lie to you._

_That only leaves one answer._

He laughs to himself in empty Amaurot, filled with shades and buildings and his aether manifesting his memories. So many memories, and yet that which was most precious to him walked above on the mortal lands, helping those short-lived, tiny souls _feel a little better_ in the fleeting moments that made up their whole lifetimes.

Saving all their lives at the expense of this city, and all the true memories held within it. Memories far more than his own. You are betraying them, your fallen kin who had sacrificed themselves for you, for these beings so short lived they may as well be living memories.

Ephemeral creatures seeking out just a little more pleasure, just a little less pain, in their woefully ignorant and empty existences.

Because they are suffering, and you, like all the people of Amaurot, are kind and gentle and filled with compassion. A hero who would sacrifice yourself for others. You are just like them. But this time, it is only you who is sacrificed to save the whole world, instead of half of humankind.

Viewed thus, it must seem a most attractive exchange.

Hades laughs, and

laughs, and

laughs

until he cries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *has two CS classes in one day*
> 
> *writes nearly 2k words of angsty Hades/WoL with 0 prior notice in like 3 hours and disappears into the night*
> 
> This wasn't supposed to turn out so sad, really
> 
> It just gets sad when I don't have an idea for where I'm going. Also when I'm happy I write sadder stuff.


	9. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emet-Selch is out of practice with this ‘love’ thing; you’ll have to forgive him. The only love he’s had since last you met was for his god. It shows. 
> 
> This is sort of a tie-in with the WoL from “Reflection”, who spends a lot of time talking to Emet-Selch about philosophy, morals, motivations, etc. Since this is a oneshot series I don’t really have a solid characterization for Emet-Selch to detail his love for WoL, so I more or less used that one, combined with my own personal feelings going through the MSQ and hearing out his story.

There’s a mark. On your arm.

It had not been there last time; Emet-Selch would have noticed. So it must be new.

“What,” He says, taking your arm into his hand, yanking it towards him even as it swung the rest of you away from his side, “is _this?_ ”

Your glare is expected – you’d stumbled a bit when he grabbed you – but what you say is not.

“No idea.”

What?

His stare must say what his thoughts do, because you elaborate, “I don’t know. It just showed up on there one day.”

That is not an elaboration. You do not hesitate to meet his eyes, so he knows –

What _does_ he know? You wouldn’t tell him anything. You’d apparently been attacked in your _sleep_ but not _woken up_ by some invisible enemy powerful enough to leave bruises on your skin but not to kill you.

Go ahead and die, then. Die to this mystery attacker, or be tormented all your life.

“Emet? Emet, what’s wrong? Really, I don’t know at all where it came from. I do enough fighting,” He finally looks at you, only to see you shrug at him, your indifference painfully obvious as a mask to your concern, “Most likely it came in some spat with some monster I ran into while helping someone. I don’t mean to lie, or keep secrets; I just really don’t know.”

Emet-Selch looks you in the eye and squeezes your arm – just hard enough to get a yelp, to see the pain flash in your eyes, piercing him just as surely. Your arm jerked in his hold, but you didn’t yank it back, instead just looking up at him with wide, questioning eyes.

“If that was so unpleasant, mayhap a change in vocation is in order. A hero’s work is never done, after all.”

Your expression sobers up far too quickly.

“I know; I’m not complaining. _You’re_ the one who pointed this out, you know. I’m used to it by now.”

Why is it that you have this wonderful talent for understanding him perfectly while interpreting his every phrase in the worst possible light? And then turning it all on him. As though he is the one out of order, when it is plain your work has brought you naught but misfortune. It is maddening. Circular and frustrating in the fullest _._

And, he admits in a moment of weakness, _utterly infuriating._

“ _Used to it?”_ His hand tightens on your arm, but he’s careful to avoid your bruise, to not hurt you any more than this wretched world had already, “Your words do your goddess no credit, hero. And less still your precious companions. Are they unwilling to protect their Champion, or merely unable?”

 ** _I_** _would never let you be hurt like this,_ he does not think, because for all your color you are just another mortal. **_I_** _would never make you fight alone. I would never leave you alone._

If you fought on behalf of the One True God, you would never be alone. You would be with others like yourself, those you had cherished like family, your friends, your _loves –_

Emet-Selch does not think any of that. You are, after all, just another mortal.

“The latter, of course,” You say, though your tone is much less casual. “They really would help me if they could, you know.”

“But they cannot.” So you get to suffer for their weakness, as surely as they may reap the benefits of your strength.

“They can’t,” You admit, in a fit of rationality he has not come to expect from you, “But that isn’t their fault. They don’t _want_ to be powerless anymore than they want me to be hurt.”

And at once the flicker of enlightenment is gone.

“What difference does _that_ make?” Emet-Selch asks, seething. “Come now, tell me! How much do their _feelings_ comfort you, in _your_ hour of need? How much does it help to know they wish to help, when you know they cannot help at all?”

“More than you would expect,” You say, finally pulling your arm back, but he does not let go.

He will allow you no retreat. This really is unacceptable.

To imagine you sulking in some inn, alone, nursing your wounds and languishing over your duty as you were unwilling to burden them with the reality of the suffering their frailty caused you –

Unacceptable. As though their pithy _feelings_ could make up for any of it.

“Then I will _show you,_ ” He says, grabbing your other arm and pulling you into him.

A dark sphere blooms with violet aether, his teleportation magicks whisking the two of you away to a room he’d taken you to before.

Well-furnished and tastefully decorated, gilded nearly everywhere it would be appropriate – it’s much an Emperor’s room, but with a personal touch you cannot deny. Dark colors dominate the carpet and wallpaper, but it’s a warm darkness, inviting. Violets and reds like wine, softened with warm, not-quite inky black that reminds you of his shadowed face and faded hair. More than anything, it just seems so very much _him._

At once he divests you of your armor and myriad underclothes; they have no place here. There’s no resistance or annoyance, but he can tell you’re a bit perturbed that he remains clothed, so he removes most of his own, letting it dissolve back into aether. He doesn’t let go of your arm, but he’s cautious with it.

Lifting your arm to his face, Emet-Selch makes his intentions all too clear. The dark mark on your forearm he brings to his face, as tenderly as a fairy tale prince might kiss a fair maiden’s hand, the Ascian brushes the small hairs of your arm with his lips. Mindful of the pressure, ever careful with his mouth.

And then he grasps you by the hips, firm even in his strange new gentleness, and shoves you back into a bed. Pinning you to the mattress, he lets his eyes and hands roam, examining. Searching.

Each scar he runs his eyes over, his soul tightens at the sight of each one, at the understanding that each one was a moment you’d been in pain and he’d been unable to help you.

But _he_ was unable because you had left him. Your _friends_ were just. Weak.

He brings his lips to your flesh in a vain attempt – to do what? The wounds are healed, the pain is over with, you are safe in the here and now. There is nothing to do, and still each one of them strikes him as surely as they must have struck you.

‘Twas an agony unlike any other; to know that you had been hurting, and he had not been there for you.

Such pain you must have experienced. Such loneliness. Apart and above all your peers and so-called comrades. The weight of a world upon you, the myriad lives and hopes and dreams of a people, all bearing down on this tiny shell that housed your soul, smaller than it should be, but greater still than he had ever imagined.

Again, and again, he touches you with kisses, gentle and fleeting, skimming over skin soft and smooth and marred alike. Roaming hands doing naught to entice, only to trace circles and words on your flesh which you would not recognize, not without knowing what it is. 

“I thought,” You say as your breath catches and you grasp at it again when his lips part from your skin, “I thought… you didn’t care for these vessels… of flesh?”

“I do not. This is for _you._ ” Emet-Selch murmurs against your collarbone, lips brushing just barely against you. Leaning in once more to press a kiss where bone stretched thin the layers of skin and sinew.

It’s strange, this touch that leaves you gasping and shivering. Like arousal, but not like it. Every time he brings his mouth to you is like a prayer, every kiss that dampens your skin an anointment, each word a sacrament; to his god or some higher power, you know not.

You know not, because you’re a fool mortal. _“For you,”_ He says to himself, to your skin prickling at his breath, _“For you.”_

Ignorant and affectionate and baring your soul and feelings for his easy assessment and –

And so _beautiful_ and _blue,_ looking up at him with such trust and adoration he feels a warmth in his aether that sparks feverish excitement as much as it makes him yearn to sing your praises. To make you feel this same warmth in this shell that you had suffered so dearly because of.

His hands are reverent, tracing instead of shaping, lavishing instead of touching to feel. Caresses in every cord and muscle that wound with tension. He works his fingertips into you gently, aether dancing across his nails and piercing your flesh bloodlessly; the heat of it piercing dense muscle built up from adventuring and radiating relief through every ilm of your body.

“You are,” He says, beginning his hymn, sighing soft against your skin, “So _powerful._ So strong and magnificent. Sometimes I think I just might tremble before you. Do you realize, at all, just how _glorious_ you are?”

All the sarcasm you’d expect is there, so out of place and yet perfectly _like him_ you almost laugh. But it’s also warm, hot on your skin like his hands, like his aether, heating you from the inside out. Pride swelling in your chest.

He couldn’t have meant that, right? It had to have been a lie.

The hand on your torso is warm and gentle. Thumbing a scar, feeling soft, pleasant skin break into a raised, warped welt of what should have been.

“I know not who did this to you,” The words come to you, felt and heard just above your navel, “I know not how much it hurt, how it came to be. And I do not _care_.”

It had hurt. You don’t say it out loud, don’t interrupt his service as he lathers you in his attention. What is there to say? What is done, is done.

But he seems to languish over the past, in an expression of devotion – _obsession ­_ – as frightening and intense as it is shamefully endearing. He won’t take his eyes off you, won’t let you go for even a second, his every motion guided with an infinite tenderness and affection you would not have imagined him capable of.

With those cutting eyes, that shadowed face and sinister smile; it didn’t speak of a man this… clingy. It’s not at all unpleasant, to be held onto, to be lavished and looked upon as… as… as though you are all the stars in the sky, every dream come true and every bright and joyful thing in his life splayed out before him.

“It should _never have happened,_ ” Says Emet-Selch to your body, as though he can command the marks upon it to disappear, “You should _never have been hurt._ Never.”

And he presses a kiss into this scar, eyes yellow and bright with a fervor you might almost recognize; or perhaps you’re simply dreaming. Perhaps this is all a dream. It would make sense.

He does not call you beautiful. He does not tell you the scars are beautiful, or that you are beautiful in spite of it.

He does not even _look_ at you, really – not at your body, not even at your face. It’s your color that enraptures him so, compels him to motion, to supplication and reverence. Golden eyes fix upon that soul of bluest blue; there exists no truer color, no shade more pleasing to look upon, no tint of crystalline color that can look so _warm_ and fill him with such open adoration.

“I could gaze upon you forever,” He says, “I could touch you forever. I could drink of you forever and never be sated, but I would never want with you by my side.”

What do you see when you look upon him? How strange, to think that to you he is this shell, while to him he cares only for your vessel inasmuch as it provides you pain and pleasure. Brightly does your aether flare at his touch. He has pleased you, and in so doing he is pleased.

But true to his word, it is not enough.

“You are too much,” He does confess, weak to your wide eyes, your lips parted as if to ask, “Sundered or not, your color is the same. Concentrated, vivid and unmistakable. Your mind has not the memories or the knowledge, but the patterns of thought are the same.”

Reverent kisses press into your neck. Delicate skin only barely brushed by the softest parts of himself he had to offer.

“The connections you make between one idea and other; between people, events, _philosophies_. You who seek to find the reason in even your foe’s actions, to emulate their minds in your own and understand the state of their being... That same manner of thinking, the constellations of your mind.” A shuddering breath brushes the crest where your collarbones meet. “I have never beheld a more glorious sight. I could listen to your thoughts forever.”

What does he see? What can be possibly see, to think these things?

You must be dreaming. Emet-Selch whispers prayers and praise into your skin and lavishes you in his attention.

Be it luck or your own desires, this miraculous dream has come to you. You must commit to memory every detail, every word and touch. Remember it all, so, so well, as much as you can, enjoy and savor every heartbeat of this outpouring of affection you had never imagined him capable of.

So you do watch – you watch the form above you, on his knees, straddling your form as he took it in.

With a curiously intense, focused gaze does Emet-Selch watch you below him. Eyes running over every place he touches, flickering back to your face, molten gold lathering down on you, narrow in a concentrated way that might have been clinical had they not been hot and fervent. Brows drawn tight together as his head dips and dives against your flesh, touching every part of you with lips and cheek and words of worship.

Each touch is cataloged in his mind, every reaction; gasp or tremor or shifting or otherwise, carefully stored for later use. Not a spot on you goes unnoticed, untouched; he means to cover your skin in his kisses, paint over every mark of pain and malice with his own intent.

How dare the world lay a hand upon you – how dare this world hurt you. Does the First not know to whom it owes the entirety of its meager, pitiful existence? Does Hydaelyn not know Her Champion must _continue,_ you have to _live your **life**_ all while you fulfill Her demands, that your work is not over once you’ve completed Her impossible tasks?

Each mark he loathes, he wishes he could erase from having ever existed, and mayhap He will one day. For now, Emet-Selch simply covers it up. Coats it in his devotion, in his adulation, that all the hurts this world and its people have lain upon you could be forgotten.

You are both the temple and the object of his worship; the focus of his unrelenting devotion. All his being surrounds you, his aether pours over you like warm water, soothing and purifying all at once. A darkness that coated you, sticky and all-encompassing. Protective. A cloak of night dotted with golden stardust. Vivid and sparkling in inky blackness, surrounding you both in a sea of stars.

He gives and gives and _gives_ of his soul, uncaring that you do not know how to give back, you are unable to reciprocate. It matters not; what devotee would ask aught of his deity? The purpose is not to have your aether flow into him in return; it is to meliorate your pain, warm the parts of you that had grown cold, to ease the loneliness and lighten the weight. To serve however he is needed, however you need him.

Anything, _anything,_ he will do for you, if only it means you will smile.

Between kisses and breaths and pleas you can only half-remember voicing, you hear him make a laugh that is partly a sob. Hades wonders if this is how you feel –

And then he decides if he didn’t already need to destroy the various fragments of this world, this alone is reason enough.

 _You_ have potential – you have _power._ You can return this care in the ways which matter most, you do not lack for wanting, only knowledge. If you _could,_ then you _would,_ the intention is there –

It's been long, so long. Hades has grown tired of lying and making excuses for himself, so he finally, _finally,_ meets your lips with his, allows himself to drown you both in mortal pleasures. To the heights of euphoria, he will take you, riding waves of endless pleasure on this vast expanse of aether that was his offering to you.

And though you’ve not the control, the knowledge, the _fullness of being,_ to return this advance…

…You may _never_ be able to…

…

He catches a glint of that blue again, in the haze of his own aether, stained with darkness and His power and weathered with age into gold long past his glory. How your eyes sparkle at the sight of it, all the same. All that longing and fondness clear in your soul since forever. Blue and bursting at the seams with this adoration for him, reaching out in what tiny ways it can, insignificant as they were.

For him. It’s all for him.

(One day maybe he’ll be willing to admit to himself, that if you stay like this forever… he wouldn't care.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who needs to be able to write orgasms when you can write praise? Honestly much better, 10/10 would prefer to have Emet just compliment me non-stop instead of go down on me.


	10. Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He was a patron of the arts, once; how hard can it be?

For the first time, Emet-Selch considers it seriously. He stops immediately, of course, because there really is no point on ruminating on such irrelevant matters.

Irrelevant, most of the time. Not oft did he need to consider just how _terrible_ it must be, being mortal. Sundered.

“ _How_ can your body _possibly_ be failing so **_spectacularly_** at the simple task of _not overheating?_ ” Complaint after complaint wells up within him. With a portion of his aether permanently bound and unwilling to part from you, Emet-Selch is granted an awareness of your physical state.

The sensations of your illness do not assault him directly, but any active brush against you with his aether transmits the feelings in an instant. The subdued ache that radiated throughout your entire body, the agony that lurked in the corner of your being, impossible to ignore – for _you,_ at least – and ever-present.

Were it not against the spirit of it all, Emet-Selch would become physically ill at the very idea of it. And here you are, experiencing it right in front of him. Against your will. _Disgusting._ Who had ever imagined these wretched mortal forms to be worthy vessels of consciousness?

“You can just leave if it bothers you so much.” Your exhaustion must truly be great, because you are not even pretending you would not mind if he left, though you offer it all the same.

No energy even to reassure him and try to make him feel comfortable with the idea of abandoning you. For _you_ , pure-hearted and gracious and perpetually considerate of his feelings, it must mean you are well and truly indisposed.

“I’ll do no such thing.” He states, making his way around the room to sit at your bedside, straightening your sheets as he did so. In one hand does he conjure a drink, laced with the most potent sedative he knows will work without side effects.

Death did ever free mortals from their suffering – but for you, unconsciousness is much more acceptable.

You eye the container and shake your head at once, settling back into your pillows. “I’m not thirsty.”

Emet-Selch scoffs. He can _hear_ how dry your voice is, you know.

“Drink it. When you wake you will feel better.” That much he can assure.

Biology has never been his strong suit, but he remembers more than enough. With another it would not be possible, but for small changes like this – he can work his aether into your flesh as you sleep, into blood and bone and sinew. Spending his energy to fight this illness on your behalf.

Between ones such as you and him –

Between _anyone_ who had shared aether so, it is possible. The boundaries of body and soul are nothing before the Echo, and having accepted his aether while offering what you could of your own, your own boundaries would permit him such intimate access to your being as he required.

In the meantime, there is no reason for you to experience all the pain your body seemed determined to put you through.

Coughing beneath his patient stare, your gaze flickers between him and the offered drink. He merely raises a brow. “Suspicious of me, are you?”

You shuffle a bit, beneath the blankets.

“Rest assured, if I meant for you to be dead, you’d be _dead._ ” He leaves out that he cannot imagine himself ever meaning it. “My plot to kill you would never rely upon you willingly accepting poison from me, and drinking it.”

What might have been the ghost of a smile drifts over your face before your eyes narrow – or at least, narrow as much as they can, in your sickened, hazy state. That stare doesn’t change, your eyes returning again and again to the liquid in the sparkling, crystalline container. Wine-dark, flavored exactly to your tastes as he knows them, and you still refused him so.

Sighing, he holds it out in front of you quite clearly, rolling his eyes as you sink further into the bed, _as though that would do anything._ Taking the flask to the lips he tips it back quickly and empties the entire thing.

With the medicine in his mouth he can’t laugh at your wide eyes the way he wants to, but it’s entertaining enough just to see. He pulls you forward so that you’re sitting up, supporting you; one hand on your back and another on your head, guiding your mouth straight to his.

At first your lips are pursed against his, an expected resistance, but he swipes at you a bit with his tongue and his aether, feeling the wave of recognition course through your body as his soul meets yours.

Baring himself so to you, the purity of his intentions – _yes,_ purity, why do you look at him so? – are made clear. He makes sure to hold you straight up; swallowing while you laid back would be unpleasant, after all.

Finally, you allow it, opening up to permit him entrance, graced in return with the sweet, flavored nectar you had not been expecting to taste so good. The liquid flows freely into your mouth, and he feels your throat contract as you drink it down, _finally,_ obediently.

Then you blink.

He pulls back, laughing to himself as he licks away some drops of the serum. It was quite pleasant – you always did have such wonderful taste. Carefully, he lets you back down onto the blankets, meeting your gaze as he does so.

Staring down at you, Emet-Selch raises a brow to match his lips lifting at the corner, “Oh, come now, hero. Even _I’m_ not so good. It will be a while before it takes effect. Not too long, perhaps, but don’t tell me you thought you were going to pass out instantly?”

A sigh tells him you did. Or at least, you had some misgivings about accepting it from him, with his attitude. That _would_ make sense, coming from you.

“Tell me a story,” You lazily command; a request that surprises him as much as it irks him.

Ordering him around; just why do you think he is doing this? He’s not obliged to stay here and watch after you, he vainly considers reminding you. As though he’d ever leave.

“A story about what?”

“Anything,” You say, closing your eyes, but you cannot sleep. The ache in your head is hard and hot and distracting; but his voice drowns it out like a song might cover the sounds of the city. It’s present, buzzing, but to hear him speak is to have something echoing through your head, filling it with more than the even, nebulous agony of fever.

“Anything,” You repeat, eyelids fluttering, “Tell me a story, please. I want to hear your voice.”

Honest and endearing are your pleas; your hand reaching up weakly from under covers, though he presses it down. Once more, he is defeated; if there is one who can deny your small and heartfelt request, Emet-Selch is not he.

So what _shall_ he tell? Nothing inflammatory; his times in Garlemald and matters of primal summoning, including Him, are out of the question.

Something innocuous; something comfortable.

Something that would give you good dreams. That you might remember when you woke.

…A tale does come to mind. And then another, and another – but he’s perhaps ten or twenty minutes before the dose takes full effect, so he should pick one he might finish within that span.

“Very well,” Your body is too tired, but your aether still reacts to the sound of his voice.

Emet-Selch can only watch in rapt fascination as blue twists and wraps around itself, pulling strands of his own aether magnetically along with it. That brilliant cerulean blue, weaved with gold – his own soul looks more familiar to him now, that bright color of days long past you’d admired with stars in your eyes.

All because of his words, rippling through your soul with every second of his speaking.

He settles you on top of him, pulling you to rest on his body, letting aether leak out to ensure you rest easy on his form. Like a blanket; a cushion of bedding for below and above, as soft and easy for you to rest upon as a sea.

Infused with soothing, caressing intent that had it dragging softly across your body in calming motions, his soul provides what relief it can. He’ll have you healed in no time, but for now, this little comfort is the best he can provide.

“Once upon a time,” Whether out of amusement or sardonic mockery, he begins the tale as he’s heard other mortals tell them. “In a time before time, in a fair city which stood atop the world…”

The feel of you relaxing against him is wonderous and pleasing all at once. A solid form fitting into gel, your physical body pressing easily into his aether, a firm, satisfying resistance.

Really, you’re just glad he’s speaking to you. It’s a voice smooth and silvery; not quite meant for oration, but precious like gold, curling and winding with personality and expression. Sticky like caramel, clinging to you and ever reminding you of his feelings; be they disdain, remorse, mockery of even pleasure.

You can feel the rumble in his throat against your head as he speaks; a vibration so small it’s almost not there, but a welcome distraction from the pressure in your head nonetheless.

“Your home?” Barely an interruption at all, your words come out low and soft, almost inaudible.

“Perhaps,” He agrees, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

He could speak of Amaurot for ages, he thinks. Paint a picture for you with his words, show you with his Echo – he could show you _in person,_ were you not bedridden.

But you had asked for a story. And he could not think of anything from Amaurot that wouldn’t – he didn’t wish to – if he were to share the tales of that time, he would have you awake and able to pay full attention to it. In an instant, his plans change. You still need a story, but some tale of your own distant past being repeated to you, he would not give.

So he – unthinkably, really – just… makes one up.

“Once upon a time,” He begins, spinning the tale from thin air – not even aether will help him form these words, “There was a great sorcerer, known throughout all the realm as a legend among his kind. So old and learned was he, that people came from far and wide to ask him questions; to hear his wisdom, and, perhaps, absorb some of his knowledge for themselves.”

“What kind of magic did he do?” A welcome inquiry. He hadn’t _actually_ thought about where to go next, only plucked at those old frayed memories lurking in his mind. Carrying the thread where he may.

“He was an Architect,” He murmurs, letting the title hang in the air, though there’s no reason you would recognize it. “He created buildings and roads, walkways and walls and lifts and all other manner of permanent structures. Several times, he had raised cities from nothing – and how the populace flocked to fill them – and his work was admired by all. But there was only so much building any one city could require of him, and he had long ago retired to his own distant lair to study and research his own personal pursuits.”

As Emet-Selch speaks, the flaws in his narrative become quite plain to him. It sounded as though the Architect had started building of his own volition, but the later statement somewhat implied that he did as the cities asked him to. And how could people come ‘from far and wide’ if he’d retired?

Even adding a building to Amaurot was only done rarely in ancient times, with how slow the population grew, it simply wasn’t needed. But the Architect had apparently raised entire cities at once, implying the explosive growth of mortal peoples, so in what world did this take place…?

In any case, there should be _some_ ruling body or authority, or, in the case of these lesser mortals, a few competing organizations who would want the Architect’s power for their own ends.

You, sick and heavy of head and weak of flesh, do not seem to particularly care. The whole time he speaks, you radiate contentment, so he is at least serving his purpose.

“The sorcerer lived in an enormous tower – tall and spiraling, up and up and up it went. He lived alone,” Tongue darting out to whet his lips; the thought crosses his mind he may be… playing it all up, a bit, “Away from any civilization, far from the wonders he had built. Thusly, anyone who had journeyed to find him had great need of his skill, and he was in the habit of granting their requests.”

A bit of a patch for his earlier concerns, admittedly. More for his benefit than your own. He wasn’t even sure any of this would be of importance at all later in the story. To be fair, he is doing this entirely ‘on the fly’, as they say.

“…Did he build that city, on top of the world…?”

 _Damn._ What he wouldn’t do for a playwright here in this moment.

He blinks, remembering the feeling of you relaxing completely into him even as it bore down onto his body and aether. Remembering your prone, tired, painfully weak and fragile form. How you have entrusted yourself to _him,_ an Ascian.

No playwright would be required – he’d speak himself out of this on his own. How hard could it possibly be?

“He hailed from there, my dear.” He says, low dulcet tones meant to distract you from the actual subject matter. The tremors through you that come in time with the notes of his voice tell him it works. “That fair city was as faraway from civilization as his own lair, as great and glorious as it had been.”

Where to go from here? It’s supposed to be a story, a tale out of myth or somesuch. Now, what _did_ such stories usually involve…?

“But,” The idea for a conflict comes to him, thankfully. “The hero of our tale was also from that shining city. As storied as the great sorcerer was, there were yet others alike to him in wisdom and power.”

Not quite what he would have _liked_ to speak to you about, but inspiration was a fickle mistress. Even to one such as him. At least he’s able to use that earlier thread to his advantage… but now you think he speaks of Amaurot, perhaps of events that have actually occurred.

He finds himself hoping you won’t remember this. Mayhap another time he’ll revisit this idea; having you on his lap, tucked under his head, limp and docile and easily draped upon his being. It’s not unpleasant at all. He’ll have to think over this, and tell a better story next time.

“Oh…?” You urge him on without adding anything this time, eager to hear whatever he has to say.

Having you hanging on his every word – it’s not entirely unpleasant. Not unpleasant in the least, even. The smile he allows to stretch over his lips is one he would be reluctant to make if he knew you could see.

“Indeed. Our hero hails from the city of Amaurot – a wise and storied scholar, herself. She had sought out the sorcerer in his faraway tower to…” To do _what,_ where the hells is this going? Think – what motivations would she have had, could she have had… “To challenge him.”

“To what?”

Your voice is soft; so soft. He almost wants to hear more of it, but the rough, almost croaky quality has something in his chest tugging painfully.

When you awake, you’ll be okay. All these aches and pains will be gone, soon, when you fall asleep. He just has to distract you until then, with whatever tools he has available to him.

“She, too, was learned in the arts of magick. Where others had looked at him as an ancient, living legend, she saw a man who had run away from his home and from his creations.”

This is getting a bit literal, isn’t it? What stupid implications, the next version of this story _must_ be revised.

“The Architect was skilled in his area of specialty indeed, but he had spent many a year granting the wishes and sharing knowledge with rare travelers who came across his tower.”

An outline of a plot comes to mind; in your exhausted, relaxed state, you’re unlikely to pick at this or some other detail of it.

“Thusly did she challenge him – she claimed she could create a greater wall than he. One so tall and proud that no army ever would dare besiege it – one so great that it would never fall to any natural disaster – and most importantly, one so pleasing to the eyes and unobtrusive that it should not obstruct the daily lives of those who lived near it.”

He feels you stir below him. The sedative is certainly taking its time. “…I bet he didn’t like that…”

That almost tugs a laugh from him. You’re quite correct; he _hadn’t._

“Indeed. His pride,” Pride, he thinks back, vanity – such arrogance, back then – he nearly feels his cheeks flush with shame to think back on it. “Was great, and at once a thousand ideas sprung to mind at how he might defeat her most spectacularly in this task. He knew of her, you see, this sorcerer, and he knew her expertise in the act of building was nowhere near his. He thought he would quite handily put her in her place, and in so doing, demonstrate his skill and competence to a novice such as her, sending her on her way most humiliated.”

 _You._ Humiliated. As though such a thing would ever be possible.

“How could she win…?” He wants to laugh, again.

To know how you’d done _half_ the things you’d done – what he wouldn’t give. Alas, those secrets are lost, unless, one day, you remember.

“Fear not. Our hero knew this quite well. She’d arranged for a challenge that she might at preform half-well in; but she most thoroughly expected to be defeated. You see, ‘twas not her intention to shame the great sorcerer – though he certainly needed a good humbling – but to inspire him to realize how much he loved his work. And how much he was missing, sitting around in his faraway tower, instead of cooperating with his peers.”

 _Oh,_ the lectures he’d been made to bear. He is reminded of some of the older threads he’d left in the story, building up this particular sorcerer’s reputation – now is as good a time as any to take from there, surely.

“However, despite her arrival – another had arrived in his tower some few days earlier. Yet another soul seeking his sage advice. This one was a man who had lost his family years ago. He could, frankly speaking, find no point in continuing to live his life; he was a good man, one who had poured the entirety of his heart and soul into his wife and children. With them gone, he did not want to carry on – yet he knew they would not have wanted him to die. And so, he sought the knowledge of the great sorcerer who had built his city.”

 _Now_ he’s blending past with fantasy, a true perversion of past events. But this is just a story, not a tale of his past or yours or any other. All great bards drew inspiration from past events, mayhap their own personal history. ‘Twas of no consequence for him to do so as well.

“He offered to help the sorcerer win this trial. ‘I understand,’ he said,” Distinguishing what parts come from his imagination and what’s come from his past is impossible, now; Emet-Selch only continues, “And despite wanting the sorcerer to return to the world, he told him he knew how hard it must be, to be seen as an outsider. As a farmer in the city his life had been hard and strange; the sorcerer had built that city in a strange fit of whimsy, creating vast buildings and gardens with the intent of allowing the peoples there to be self-sufficient.”

It feels better to be making this all up. However, the technicalities of such a city spring to mind immediately. Were the gardens _layered_ atop one another? If so, how would the sunlight reach each level? How would _water_ filter through the levels, and the soil – the roots! Even if he could get around all those issues, how could this design possibly be an improvement on regular agrarian models –

This is ridiculous. This is but a made-up story for your semi-conscious fragmented self to listen to as you drift to sleep. Expending so much of his mind and effort on it is just –

_“You really do pour your heart and soul into the things you care about. Do **not** take this as an incentive to overwork yourself, but… I love that about you, Hades, do you know that?”_

He continues with the story.

“This man who had lost his family had been one of the few who did try to utilize the city’s doomed architecture, though the sorcerer had long since moved on since building it.” He smiles despite himself, the memories of one failure after another flickering before him.

‘Twas difficult, the task of not being a fool. Especially without others around him to tell him what a fool he was. And moreso, to kind and gentle folk too sweet to offer him any true criticism. 

How fortunate, that he’d found who he had.

“The vast majority of it had been re-purposed into living space, though the city remained famous and most pleasant for its gardens and the plant life that flourished there. The man had been able to live a life and support his family with the structures built therein, but he had not done very well for himself, and was among the city’s poorer residents. Still, he had loved his lifestyle and admired the sorcerer for coming up with such an idea – even if it was completely impractical for large populations.”

Ah, to think how often he had failed… at least there were other mistakes to look back upon. The greater mistakes oft belonged to those with greater fame and success, as well.

“…The sorcerer, then, came upon the realization; that he was not so different from the people he had distanced himself from, despite the vast gulf between his abilities and theirs. Even if he had been… unique, among his own people in Amaurot, he was still dear enough to them that this woman had come to retrieve him. And he was not entirely along in his eccentric ways, even among those without such talent as his own.”

Feeling much a rambler, he pauses, looking down, but even without the ability to see your face he realizes you are paying quite rapt attention.

It’s a bit worrying, actually. He cannot tell in the least whether you will realize this is much inspired of his time in Amaurot – well. If ever you came to ask, he would deny it as a fantastical story, which it was, in part. And if you remembered –

If you remembered, he wouldn’t have to explain.

“He denied the man’s help, but smiled, still, and gave the man some magical seeds. ‘Take these,’ he said, ‘And plant them somewhere with much sun. And you will never be lonely again.’ The seeds would grow in accordance to the love given to their keeping, and if the man poured as much of his dedication into his garden as he had into his living family, he would surely be rewarded. And indeed, the fruit of that garden did bring him great joy, but that is not where our sorcerer’s tale leads…”

His shifts his arms around you, holding you tight. Your aether presses into him in response, humming, but it’s low, soft; you must be drifting, or beginning to drift.

“They left the sorcerer’s home to find a large number of people to judge their little contest. Once they did, they set about their separate creations, each taking some few days to go. As the challenger, our hero went first.”

Always letting you go first. The one time you’d joked that wasn’t a courtesy, he’d not hesitated to mock you.

Always letting him get under your skin; even now, you shiver above him. Whatever is he to do with you?

“She created a wall, as she said she would. Since she had been planning this for some time, she’d been able to think up every detail in advance. The wall was taller, indeed, than anything any of them had ever seen, wide and great as though a mountain, a tidal wave standing high. ‘Twas made of a silvery, crystalline substance that caught the eye and was nearly painful to look upon – from the outside, at least. From within it was beautiful, glorious and white and glimmering, and all could tell that it was a most wonderful creation.”

“…And what about… his creation?”

You’re always interested in his creations, aren’t you? It breaks him from the inside out, dissolving his aether with a touch of blue, vivid and adoring.

“He’d had a million different ideas. Finally, he did settle upon one, and when they went out to see his great creation, they saw… nothing. Just the vast and empty expanse, the sights and scenery, even a gentle breeze.”

There’s always that rush of pride, even though what he speaks of is only in a story, never took place in anyone’s history. Just dreaming up the problem had been stimulating; moreso than anything he’d been required to do in so many dreadfully _boring_ mortal lives.

“The wall he had created was completely invisible. Though he did summon forth most impressive creations to test it – no one could reach the top of it, and instead of being thick, the wall was so thin it was barely there at all. In fact, the sorcerer demonstrated with pride, the wall was also not very tall – he could quite easily toss things over it, for example. And, in the culminating act, he walked straight through it, demonstrating the wall’s most magnificent property; it allowed only benign entities to pass, be they living or inanimate. His victory was summarily decided, though his challenger was not likewise impressed.”

“But…” Even without your finishing the sentence, he knows well what you mean to ask after.

“The purpose of a wall, she argued, was to be _visible._ Even if his wall was taller, or thicker, no one could ever see it. The wall would only result in any number of fools walking straight into it, and those on the other side would have no choice but to watch any approaching danger, no matter how safe they were in truth. The sorcerer saw her argument at once, and realized she had quite the point – he’d dismissed practical considerations in return for making something awe-inspiring, as of the was wont to do. But those called to judge the contest did not change their verdict.”

He pauses, and this time it’s for anticipation. At least he’d thought out far enough to do this much.

“That was when the sorcerer looked upon the judges and realized he knew many of their faces. The man he had sent away had spread his tale, and the people who had lived in and around his creations had all come to see him work his passion once more.”

And with that, a long sigh.

“He realized the only reason he had won… was because of how his creations had helped people. How dearly they loved the castles and towers and myriad other glorious buildings he’d created for them. Because he had not turned away those who’d journeyed to him seeking help – a point of vice, really, rather than virtue, fulfilling his own arrogance and desire to be needed – the peoples he had helped knew that he yet lived.”

The story is no small part slipshod, but it’s perhaps not totally unworkable.

“And then the sorcerer said to his challenger – ”

Frowning, Emet-Selch pulls a bit away, carefully reaching up to cradle your head as he removes you from the crook of his neck.

You’d fallen asleep.

Of course you have. That had been the point of this entire thing.

Really, he’s just staying to make you better. The longer you stay sick, the greater the delay in his… plans. That he has. For you. It is _convenient_ for you to be back, up and fighting fit, and smiling and touching him and talking to him –

(One day Emet-Selch might be honest with himself, but today is not that day.)

The sight of your resting face… the smile you must have labored to raise, even in your ache and exhaustion…

He’d comforted you, hadn’t he? Made you feel better.

Emet-Selch finds himself hoping you don’t forget, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When writing gets so frustrating that you bust through writers block to project your writer’s block onto the characters and write several thousand words more than you ever meant to :/
> 
> This was 100% supposed to be a cute little Emet-taking-care-of-WoL sicfic but it turned into storytime, which took up the bulk of it, made it way longer, and I'm not really satisfied at all with the story Emet's telling. At least Emet got to complain about it in his own narration...


	11. Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea tsundere emet is cool I guess but have you tried “helplessly in love and wears his heart on his sleeve” emet??

He makes the mistake, once, of mentioning in passing his great-grandson’s name. In a moment of weakness, in his room in Amaurot, not that you knew where that was.

“You actually don’t look very much like him,” You say, arms crossed, tilting your head in him in that endearing, annoying way.

Arching a brow at you, he retorts, “What are you suggesting, hm? I’ve been cuckolded?”

Not for lack of trying on her part, the fool woman. Yes, he’d told her she could have as many lovers as she wanted, but she hadn’t been nearly as discreet about them as he’d asked. He’d made her Empress and that was how she repaid him – failing even the simplest of instructions. _Mortals._ Always so disappointing.

He'd ensured all her lovers were barren, of course. Not that he particularly cared to pass down the genes of this body, but he had a use for the imperial line, and it wouldn’t do to have it undermined by questions of legitimacy.

“Well, the golden hair, the blue eyes. His hair was so _long,_ you could hardly miss it, and Varis as well…”

Emet-Selch tuts, “Who do you think started that trend, my dear?”

Running a hand though his hair as he smiles at you suggestively, feeling the hair lengthen and extend with his brush through it. Widening, slightly, your eyes follow that hand, fascinated completely. It’s almost comical how you stare, paying no mind to your surroundings or even his expression.

“It’s so long…” You murmur to yourself. You’d only ever seen hair this long, never touched it. Mostly in pictures, in paintings, you’d never met someone in _real life_ with hair this long, right in front of you.

Zenos hadn’t had hair this long – and neither had Varis. As impractical as their hair was, it at least wouldn’t actively hinder them. Emet-Selch’s hair is well past his waist, more suited towards a woman of finest nobility than… really, any sort of person who would be expected to do more moving than walking across a room once in a while.

A moment’s consideration goes though his mind, but really, there’s never any question of it.

“Well then, my dear,” He purrs, strolling over to you and tugging you along to the sofa, to sit beside him, “Would you like to touch?”

You don’t even _say_ yes before you bury your hands in it, dragging from root to tip, shifting close enough that your bodies touch.

It’s soft – _unbelievably_ so. Like water in your hands, almost; nothing is softer than water, nothing smoother that glides more easily through your grasp, and yet it is a feeling entirely unlike touching anything wet. His hair is warm and dry.

Running your fingers through something this smooth is a feeling all itself. Surrounded with smoothness, pooling in your hand like warm, fine sand, but coalesced into lines so perfect you can feel no difference between them. Only the strands that gently part and slide across your skin as you card your hands in his hair, brushing once, twice, again and again.

No matter how fast you run your fingers through it, nothing ever catches; the hairs merely slip past easily, your hands meet your resistance. Downy and somehow still smooth, just barely flaring out in its new volume, only slightly feathery at the ends that are also pleasant to touch, like a precious and well-loved painter’s brush.

After running your hands through it for some time, you gather a handful, pulling it into your lap, brushing it out in your hands. A coil of his locks lies shining on your lap, dark and violet, but impossibly warm.

It catches the light like the finest of wines, a warm vintage for drinking by a fire. Molten and ashen all at once in your lap, a muted, just-barely-purple brown gleaming in each curve and rise. There’s so _much_ of it.

You can’t help it; you hold up a lock loosely in your hand, threading through it just a bit – just to _feel_ it once more, that wondrous sensation of it against your skin – and bring it to your face. Pressing it to your cheek to feel it as it slips back down, a smooth, gradual descent with individual hairs falling nearly one by one.

It’s _so soft._ You bring it to your lips, even; a warm, unidentifiable scent pressing like silk into your closed mouth. Vaguely familiar; rich and buttery and filling you with comfort. The feel of his aether springs to mind, faintly, a color secondary to your other senses. Up to your cheek again, soft, _so soft,_ the precious satin threads skimming your face in a touch so gentle and bare and pleasant it near takes your breath away.

Now you’re almost _envious._ How in the world does he have hair so well-behaved, so put together and soft and pleasant yet thick and lush and perfect to the touch? So light and feathery in your hands? It just isn’t fair.

He’s watching you, you realize belatedly, out of the corner of your eye. He’s watching you pour over his hair like a miser over your gold, bringing it to your face and breathing it in and –

His ‘vessel of flesh’ wasn’t something he really cared about. He’d made his hair like this in just a couple heartbeats, just on a whim.

You should speak up, say something. Anything.

“Did you… love your family?” You ask softly, qualifying before he can answer, “As Solus, I mean; when you were Emperor.”

As amusing as it has been for him to watch you play over his hair like a child, Emet-Selch is pleased to have your attention returned. Even if you’re asking the most pointless of questions.

“How could I? They were only mortals.” The real question is why you even asked; the answer should be obvious. Even if you disagree with his reasoning, you do at least know what it is.

“So you married her for political purposes,” He hears you muse, something strange in your voice, “And I suppose you didn’t care for Varis or Zenos – yes, he would have been very young when you died.”

You lift your hands back up towards the hair at the base of his head, stroking through it from the roots. He can feel his hair, lifting and falling with each brush of your hands through it, as easily as he feels the lift on his cheeks at the upturn of his lips.

Such pointless, wasteful jealousy. How entertaining.

“’Tis unseemly to envy the dead, my dear.” To say nothing of the irony.

The one who owned his heart was long since dead – long since dead, and sitting beside him, combing through his hair. He wonders if you’ll ever envy yourself – if he mentions his time with you in Amaurot without telling you anything.

Emet-Selch can practically _hear_ your future self sulking in the future, from the present. And then he will be forced to comfort, to reassure, mayhap even to _explain._ No, he thinks not.

…Assuming you haven’t already remembered, and you’re simply entertaining yourself with his ignorance.

Before chiding himself – Elidibus has _definitely_ rubbed off on him, damn the man – he wonders if he would even _want_ that to be the case. Granted, you’re all but an unsundered now; your Gift is so powerful you may as well be one of them, but what would change?

You had your memories when you summoned Hydaelyn. Having them now would not make you any more amenable to the Convocation’s goals. To His will.

And if you do not ever regain your former status, this person before him will one day die and be no more. Phrased thusly, it is plain how this should end.

“Can I cut it?” Your voice interrupts, lighthearted and cheerful, and just a tad bit mischievous.

Obnoxiously so. Amusing, though, he’ll give you that.

Arching a brow, he says, “You really are full of surprises. A warrior and an aesthetician both; most impressive. However _do_ you do it all?”

“I don’t,” You say, “I’ve never cut hair in my life.”

…You really are impossible. But mayhap not _entirely_ unworkable.

“Very well,” There is no point in denying you; he can easily restore his hair to its earlier appearance anyways.

But there’s also no point in telling you that in advance. He sighs, as if greatly put-upon, lounging back, throwing himself upon your lap so that his head lay atop your thighs.

You have to work your arms around him to pull his hair up and over where you can play with it atop his chest.

“It’ll look awful,” You tell him conversationally, twirling a lock around your finger, contemplating some braids.

He can’t help but laugh. What else is there to do, really? “You are worth the pain, my dear.”

Unexpected is the pink that flushes your cheeks, faint but visible.

Of all things – _this_ is what embarrasses you? To pass by this opportunity would be a mortal sin; Emet-Selch presses on.

“For you I would endure a thousand deaths,” He ventures, staring straight up at your face as you diligently ignore him for his hair, cheeks reddening _delightfully._

“I suspect,” You say evenly, but he can sense your squirming aether letting out faint spasms of indignation and embarrassment – admittedly, it’s a bit more contained than it might have been before. You’ve learned, haven’t you? “That you would die for many reasons, including making a point in conversations, being dramatic, or just to entertain yourself with other people’s reactions.”

He draws his brows together. “My dear, I must ask – why _do_ those come to mind, hm? Do you need me to make a statement for you? Work up some drama? Are there any _reactions_ I can elicit from others that might entertain you, hm?”

You’re on the back foot and he cannot help a satisfactory grin with the knowledge. You question his sincerity and he uses the premise of your question to invoke more sincerity.

Some things never change, do they?

“I can think of a few statements I’d like to hear from you,” You positively _grumble_ above him – you _adorable_ creature!

“Merely speak the words and I’ll repeat them back to you!” Emet-Selch says, enjoying himself immensely as his mind races ahead of his words, “Or would it please you more for me to guess them?”

What really reddens your face is the understanding that you’ve been trapped, and that just makes it all the better.

You know it and he knows it. It’s an excuse to throw compliments at you, with no easy way to avoid. He wracks his mind – things you’ve said, things you’ve done, your past interactions; what to tell you about them that would please you to hear, what to tell you about _yourself…_

“You’re beautiful.” Comes to mind immediately, and a thousand more phrases rush into his head, but alas, he can only speak one of them at a time –

“I thought you didn’t like these _flesh vessels,_ ” You mutter down at him, toying with his hair, thoroughly committed to pretending to be distracted.

Immediately, he springs up, swinging his hips so that he straddled your sitting form, on his knees so that his face is above yours. He leans down to face you, your eyes still desperately averted as you sit back, but there is no escape.

Holding your chin so that you must face him, he says, “Did I say your _body_ was beautiful?”

The blank look in your eyes, as blue as he has ever remembered, tells him all he needs to know.

“My people do not bother to look upon one another’s bodies to speak for them,” No need to specify that this was borne of necessity for his current colleagues, who had given up their bodies, and that when everything was _right_ in Amaurot, people could – He continues, “They look upon their _souls._ ”

Something passes, in those eyes blue like crystal. Unreadable. You’d always been such a mystery to him, so opaque and impossible to read, even as you claimed to be straightforward – even as you _were_ straightforward. There had always been so much more for him to know, so much more of you to see –

He cannot imagine that it’s possible to know _all_ of you. Not that it would ever stop him from trying.

“Do you know what we thought was beautiful?” He whispers, leaning in towards you, uninterested in meeting your lips. Pressing his chest to your own, to bring the most of his own aether into contact with yours, seeping through his body into your being. “Do you know what _I_ thought was beautiful?”

“No,” You say, in a tone that sends _something_ trembling through him, “But I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

Emet-Selch laughs in his soul, aether brightening, vividly, until it is almost gold again like sunlight. Like sunlight, you’d called it, so long ago.

And how he did loathe the light.

It warms him still, from the inside out. As is its nature.

“Strength of character,” He says, thinking of the one member of the Convocation who objected when all others had approved – refusing to compromise on your principles under any circumstances.

It would have been easy to agree with them and go along. To accept the solution presented, which was, in truth, the _only_ solution. Throw yourself into your work as you had so many times before.

But you owed it to them, you’d said. You owed it to them and so did all the others; the Convocation was meant to solve this problem. Half of humankind would be sacrificed for this, and they owed it to them to know that what they sacrificed themselves for would actually _work._ That it was, really, truly the only way.

Even now, he desperately agrees; he owes to them _everything,_ everyone in every world owes their existences, futile though they may be, to those souls who offered up their very being to create Him. They gave up their lives, that the others might live, knowing full well it may all be in vain. It struck you just as deeply as the rest of them, when the volunteers came forth so gracefully and willingly.

Nothing would stop Emet-Selch from saving them. Just as nothing would stop you from saving them.

He would never have it any other way. Only, he would rather have had you _agree_ with them, he would have had you believe that saving them meant _actually saving their lives,_ instead of protecting their legacy. Everything would have happened differently. Everything would have been better.

Mayhap there had been a better way than that great and terrible sacrifice – though his mind strains to comprehend such a thing, a world without Zodiark, how _wrong_ that sounds, like that terrible echo from within the earth – but the fact remained that there had been no time to find it.

And indeed, you’d not begrudged them that, only gone to search for yourself for another solution, knowing that they could complete it all without you, anyways…

“Curiosity,” There were no adventurers in Amaurot.

There were no battles to fight, no dangers to brave, no agonies which would befall others at the cost of failure. When the world was whole, people were encouraged to explore tomes and knowledge as well as the world around them, and they did so with great joy and not a hint of fear.

Those who eventually came to Amaurot were those who grew tired of traveling the world and meeting others, or simply yearned for a new experience. Exploring one’s own mind, the minds of others; delving into the deep and abstract realm of theory and philosophy endless enough to match the boundless desire for _more_ – to do more, to _be_ more.

But if he reminisces, he will become caught in nostalgic longing entirely. There’s more that must be said to you right now.

“Depth of mind,” He says, _pressing_ his soul into yours, not hard, but firm, in all the places he knew best.

It’s the purest, deepest blue he’s ever seen. Still waters run deep, as Emet-Selch is well aware. The eternally stoic and silent Warrior of Light. The brooding hero. Your thoughts are nowhere near as blank as your face; you thought about _everything,_ about everyone, analyzed every moment and every statement and every event that took place around you.

One might even be forgiven for assuming you paid little mind to the matters around you, though not by him. You took note of every possible moral quandary, every hidden scheme or contradiction, every subtle flaw in the plans of others that they had not realized themselves.

Far-reaching effects of decisions given little weight, problems present in methodology the examiners had not noticed, implications to one reform or another that may cause issue. You could have written essays about them all, could have spoken at length about all of them, but you held your tongue so much more often than not.

In the direst of circumstances, and when votes were called, when your opinion was _asked,_ you gave it. But otherwise, those around you so often made decisions without your input. You watched them choose, and when they asked, you gave. When they made mistakes, you let them. So that they could learn from them.

So many thoughts, and so often you chose not to spoke them. Even innocuous things; harmless matters of opinion, what things you enjoyed, hobbies and outings and favored gifts alike, you never brought up to others. Only with time, effort, and no small amount of affection did he coerce you to divulge them.

What he would not give to have heard them all. Precious like jewels, like sapphires set in gold, he treasures every word you’d ever said to him. Preserved in memory just as well as everything else with Amaurot – those precious days when you and he lived together, before everything went wrong.

Even when you were on the Convocation, he’d gotten you to share more of yourself, but you shared the most of yourself with those privileged few who were close to you.

Close, so close the two of you had been, and yet thinking back he still wishes you had been even _closer,_ he wants to be closer _now –_

You are a different person with him. You always were. That self you showed to the world, to all others; it wasn’t bad, exactly. But ever had it irked him, and it irks him still, to see how you let others speak for you without making your own opinion known.

No, he thought, remembering the sight of your back as you left the Capitol building.

You spoke much more with your deeds than with your words.

Any who cared to see could tell what kind of person you were from your actions.

“Optimism,” The word comes with something that might have been a laugh, one that ripples through his aether into you, a faint and rolling trill of pleasant memories, past and present.

Even now it absolutely _infects_ others. _You_ infect others. Like a parasite, he thinks, dragging his aether across your own, watching blue meet gold – it’s such a _beautiful_ combination, he’d never grown tired of watching himself be with you. He’d never grow tired of _being_ with you.

You brought hope and determination wherever you went. Others followed suit so easily, so willingly, blinded by the brilliance of that vivid color, so pure and true. So incorruptible that it inevitably tainted others, that you drew all those lesser souls to your own shade.

Emet-Selch had longed for it so; in that darkness, in those hours, no matter how he had despised the Light.

When you left, they were not the same, could never be the same. When he had despaired, you encouraged him. When he suffered, you came to his side, eased the aches you could, and granted him your presence to comfort what your deeds could not. When he pitied himself, you told him how he could be better. You _showed_ him.

No few of their number had been reduced to wallowing on occasion, in those precious weeks before the Final days – ‘twas _you_ who stood with them, beside them, looked at their work and pulled them through it when they shouted reason after reason why this could not possibly be done.

They learned from you, how to be strong in the face of overwhelming difficulty. _He_ had learned from you. He learns even now, watching your soul struggle and shine despite breaking apart at the seams. Watching you reach out to him, grasp him and hold him close even as you fell apart.

Somehow, you would find a way to make it all right. You would fix this. Fix everything. Make it so that everyone could be happy, everything would work out. You would make it happen. Iron determination, resolution that brooked no argument, set upon an ultimate and ideal end.

They’d all learned it from you; it’s a good thing you cannot remember, otherwise you would surely curse yourself.

He wraps his arms around you in a fond embrace. Reluctantly, you return it, arms reaching about him to pull him flush to your body. When he places his chin on your shoulder, he can feel your cheek hot against his. You reach out with your aether, too, returning the touch he’d so lavished upon you with his praises.

Blue but warm, crystalline and soft, sparkling yet smooth and pure in color. Every part of it makes his soul want to sing, brightens the parts of him it comes into contact with, saturates him with all the colors and feelings and an invigorating sensation that’s not quite _power,_ but empowers all the same, in the strangest of ways.

It makes him smile.

Emet-Selch holds you all the tighter for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently Hades in both his boss forms has very long hair. 
> 
> Uh hey this was not supposed to turn into what it did I would like a refund, please stop having Emet reminisce about EVERYTHING when he’s with WoL I’d like to write regular romance/fluff/smut please
> 
> Let me know how you guys are liking it. The way things are now, the next chapter’s gonna be set in pre-Apocalypse Amaurot, which doesn’t fit the fic summary and the general idea of the series but I had an idea and I wrote like, half a thousand words before I knew it. What parts have you enjoyed the most? The smut? The Flashbacks? The Romance (fuck have I written ANY romance??)? The ~Fluff~? 
> 
> I have more of all of it planned, so it's always nice to hear from you guys to know what you'd like to see first. And of course, if you have any fun prompts you'd like to throw my way, that would be neat! It will probably turn out different than you'd think (this oneshot was supposed to be a short thing about hair...hah and the last one was supposed to be a sickfic) but so far I have been taking single-word prompt sort of ideas and running with them, it seems to work well :)


	12. Deskmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write this idea for Lahabrea/WoL in my Convocation fic, but the problem is, with Lahabrea and WoL being in Anyder together Lahabrea obviously hasn’t become “Lahabrea” yet, and we don’t know his real name. Yet. >.>
> 
> So we get Hades/WoL instead, at Anyder together. One possible “first meeting” out of many. Also written in past tense, because I apparently enjoy pain.

He wrote in pen. You wrote in pencil.

You were deskmates, he had said, smiling at you as though he had some reason to smile, sliding easily onto the bench to take a place next to you.

It made no sense. There were no desks proper in this lecture hall, not quite; only long tables shared by entire rows of students. You and he were the only ones who had sat so close to the front, but you attributed that to Mitron’s general demeanor. Always quick to lash out and reprimand students for talking out of turn, for even innocent – if ‘foolish’ – questions.

Lahabrea was a much better professor; ‘There exists no such thing as a stupid question! None of you should be afraid to raise your hand, and if anyone laughs, I shall have their ears.’

(He didn’t mean that physically – just the idea of violence in the hallowed halls of Anyder would have shocked any of you. Lahabrea had meant he would demand they sit and listen to a lecture about why they should not have done what they did, potentially for hours on end. Frankly, it was probably worse.)

This had only invited students to think up the most obnoxious possible questions, which, Lahabrea being who he was, he would answer in perfect solemn intonation without a hint of mortification or annoyance. Indeed, he hadn’t seemed to mind at all; it was like he _enjoyed_ being tested, even in such trivial ways.

Long before they had reached his limit the class hit theirs. With great satisfaction had Lahabrea had detailed to a particularly cheeky student the basics of Creating offspring; how much preparation was required, how much effort was needed on both parts, the _intimacy_ –

You’d started to suspect he liked seeing red faces in the audience, but he hadn’t shamed a single one of the askers, only answered as honestly and sincerely as he’d said he would.

The speaker indeed. His voice was most pleasing to listen to, if you were being honest with yourself. ‘Twas a shame you weren’t the type to speak up.

Mitron spoke, in his louder, much rougher voice, about _another_ minutiae of cellular structures in invertebrates. The lecture had already veered into confusing jargon, and with every unfamiliar word he said that you tried to write down before you forgot it, you felt more and more like you were drowning.

If you were being honest with yourself, you would admit you were completely lost. You’d raise your hand and ask for clarification, ask him to define some of the terms he was using.

You didn’t.

Frowning at your notes, you stood, slipping it into your satchel and striding off as quickly as propriety allowed.

“Having difficulty with Mitron’s lectures?” Your ‘deskmate’ had followed you.

You pretended not to hear him, walking straight towards the exit. What you couldn’t learn from the lecture, you’d find in the book. Mitron’s works were all publicly available at the Library, all you needed was to ask the Concept Clerk and a copy would be made for your use that day.

“Deskmate?”

He was still following you. Picking up the pace, you shrugged your satchel higher, closer, as though to indicate your disinterest.

Naturally, he followed you all the way to the Library. You wouldn’t even deign to tell him to leave; you had better things to do. More things to worry about. You sat at a desk and spread out the tome beside your notes, ready to annotate all the vocabulary words, somehow make sense of what Mitron had gone over today.

He sat down beside you.

“You write in pencil?”

A glance confirmed your ‘deskmate’ favored a quill. A bit traditional. Most students these days used true pens, which wrote without needing an inkwell.

Giving your eraser a pointed glance, you brushed away some rubbings from your papers.

“Ah, so you can erase it…” So he wasn’t a fool. “But surely you can just magick it away?”

You probably could. It was what the other students did, as far as you knew – which was not that much. You paid attention to your own work. Giving him a small nod, you go back to copying a diagram, but the circle isn’t quite –

In the time it took you to reach for the eraser, it disappeared. He banished the faded scrawl before you got the chance to touch it, but still you bring the eraser down, sweeping across the paper once, twice, then swiping away the scraps.

“Hm?” He mused, as though considering something.

Finally, _finally,_ you looked up at him, meeting his eyes. Saying naught – as silent and brooding as ever. The perfect student in all the classes, the rising star Hythlodaeus had mentioned to him; you were a difficult case indeed.

But you had your quirks. Little things. Writing in pencil, using erasers, the way he’d seen you glance between your notes and the professor with a helpless desire for knowledge.

Running away from him – but discreetly. Halfhearted in your avoidance. You could have just _said_ something, but no. You kept your silence.

If you wanted nothing to do with him, he would accept that. But he wanted to hear your voice at least once. It would sound amazing, he knew, intriguing, and brilliant, just like the rest of you.

“A creature of habit, are we?” He said, with a strange smile that tugs at something in your chest.

You gave him your name, speaking suddenly, and it was obvious he didn’t expect you to do it. Satisfied and no small bit vengeful for all his little intrusions, you allow him the cursory brush of your aether, just the faintest of glances at the back of your mind.

(His soul is an even prettier gold, up close)

“Hades.” He returned, in a voice lighter than before.

Hades does not say anything, going over his own work independently, sitting with you in amiable silence.

The next time you erase something, the scraps of eraser disappeared just before you went to dust them off. From his place beside you, Hades had neither moved nor spoken up, and he wasn’t looking at you, either.

Inexplicably, a tiny smile made its way onto your face.

Mayhap you could get used to this.

You wrote down the words as Mitron spoke them, just by rote; you’d at least have the lecture transcribed, if you couldn’t understand it. It came with its own problems – a word misspelled, and you nearly cursed to yourself, rushing straightaway to erase it as he got further and further ahead.

Hades was paying enough attention to the lecture that he didn’t notice the quick flick of your hand against paper to once again wipe away the bits of eraser dust. You put pencil to paper again, but you were entirely lost. Whatever the professor was talking about now surely had something to do with what he’d been talking about two sentences ago, but the man spoke fast and didn’t hesitate to jump from one topic to the next.

So you went the rest of the class just trying to catch important words and phrases to write down. Phrases that _seemed_ important. If it was something you remotely understood, you didn’t bother copying it at all –

When the lecture ended you had nearly five pages.

You sighed to yourself, and took off as the class ended, resigned to another day of study. It was strange, this feeling that attending the lectures was a waste of time.

“Why _do_ you write in pencil?” Hades asked you on the way to the Library, keeping pace to walk at your side.

You shrugged.

“Wouldn’t it be better to use ink? Erasers make such a mess.”

Lips pursed, you shot him a scowl. If he wanted to criticize your writing, he could go somewhere his opinion was wanted. Or better yet, _asked for._

“What?” His eyes widened in a mockery of innocence, “I only speak the truth, you know.”

“I’ll call you Emet-Selch,” You said dryly, prompting a snort of laughter.

“You never know.” Unimpeded, he continued, “It is of course a great challenge to take on. And I am yet unworthy of the position – but mayhap not forever. If I continue to push my limitations, one day I will grow into someone who _is_ worthy.”

Push his limitations – such as trying to make friends with one who was normally reserved. Or taking on a course with the storied Mitron, one of the three professors at Anyder that also had a seat on the Convocation; infamous for his role in providing… constructive criticism to his peers among the Fourteen, and, as was obvious to anyone who ran into him in person in the Akadaemia halls – _exceptionally_ impatient and aloof.

He meant it _,_ you realized, stopping in your tracks to stare at him. He stopped quickly enough, looking back with an arched brow and an impish smile. Such a boyish, charming expression, and yet…

He really meant it. Hades wanted to become Emet-Selch, a paragon of society and all of civilization – one of the Fourteen great minds that studied and led research and made all decisions of import within Amaurot – and by extension, the world at large.

Somehow, your view of him shifted, like colors through a kaleidoscope twirling and fading, rainbows and colors mixing into fractals until you’re left with a single image. Not a boy, but a man; a young one, determined to make his way towards a better self. A vibrant gold – but one that might one day be regal. Storied and ancient and wise.

“I could see it.” You said, and then immediately regretted it.

“But of course. Such efforts as mine could never be in vain,” Preening, Hades nearly crowed his next words, taking a few lazy steps forward, twirling a bit, almost running straight into you.

With a sigh, you gave up on ever giving him any advice. At least it might be fun watching him try over and over to live up to such exacting standards. You started walking again, taking your eyes off him with a shake of your head.

“In truth, I do realize the unlikeliness of my ambition,” He said, turning to walk normally and catch up with you, “But we all need something to strive for, do we not? And if it is impossible, all the better – then, I can live my days with purpose.”

You made the mistake of glancing over to see his face, and his smile –

His smile was like sunlight shining in your chest, warm and blossoming in the core of your soul.

Faintly, you smiled back.

“You never did tell me why you favor pencil over pen.”

Solemnly, you nodded; it was true. You _hadn’t_ answered him.

You hadn’t noticed, either, but Hades saw the light blush, just barely visible from below your mask.

A strange burst of intuition came upon him –

Hythlodaeus had erasers on his desk. Pretty ones; ones in strange colors, ones shaped like flowers or animals or in pleasant designs – custom Creations all of them, clearly.

Hades felt an odd feeling coursing through his soul; he withdraws from any accidental contact proximity might cause between you.

It seemed he was not the only one who strove to surpass the limitations imposed upon him.

An impossible ambition, was it? Something to strive for throughout his days?

You’d never been one to question what it was that _you_ were working for; your path always seemed laid out for you, obvious even when you’d had to go through many an obstacle to continue on it. To excel in all that you did – your parents, peers, and teachers had praised that goal, ever since you were young, and you had no intention of changing it now.

But to strive also for _improvement…_ To be a different person than you were – a better person, more able to achieve your goals and accomplish such great feats as you aspired to…

Because you were a fool, who listened to other fools, you brought it up next lecture.

Mitron’s response was worrying in its immediacy. “What do you mean, I am speaking too quickly?”

You averted your gaze – it was shameful, not knowing everything. Hades would probably tease you about it – ‘But who could?’ He’d chime, that comforting tone that mocked you all the same –

“I mean I think you’re speaking too fast. And…” Why had you added that ‘and’. Now you had to explain… “And you use so much jargon. I have a hard time following what you’re talking about.”

“Explain yourself!” Mitron said, rough and deliberate, intense in his gaze and his aether; truly, only the greatest of souls was allowed a seat on the Convocation. “I have been speaking this way for the entire lecture. How is it you only find it to be too fast, now?”

“I didn’t only find it to be too fast, now,” You replied, sullen.

Unwilling to meet his eyes, you stared down at your notes. It wouldn’t do to glare at Hades, after all, Mitron would surely take that as a sign of you ignoring him.

For a moment Mitron was silent.

“Since the beginning… I can’t tell what you’re talking about, most of the time. You speak quickly and use terms without explaining what they mean. I can’t even understand most of my notes until I go over the book after class.”

The silence was absolutely _deafening._ You stared at your notes as though you could cause them to spontaneously combust and give you an excuse to run from the room.

“And for _how long…_ has this been the case?”

Mitron’s tone had taken on a rather terrifying inflection. The class sat before him in abject terror.

“Have none of you been able to follow my lectures _from the very beginning?!”_

Oddly, that did not help the issue of them being in abject terror. He sighed, pinching the nose of his mask with his hands.

“Show of hands – who has been able to keep up with the lectures so far?”

No hands.

Mitron sighed _violently._

“Show of hands. Who has _not_ been able to keep up with the lectures until now?”

No hands. Tentatively, you raised yours, with the terrible realization that it was just you – and, glancing over, you saw Hades raising his as well.

…You could think of worse things than going down together.

“Both of these things cannot be true. So!”

The sharpness of it had several students jerking back in the seat, “Am I to assume you have all understood this current lecture, as well as the last one? You would all be able to pass a simple, short examination – ”

Several hands darted upwards, and then more. And more.

“You _idiots!”_ The hands went down, “No! This is the first time any of you have even _begun_ to express what is going on inside those half-empty heads, and you all mean to go back on it?! Is that it?!”

He got no answer; you weren’t sure if he was expecting one. _You_ certainly weren’t about to say any –

“I’ve been thinking this from the beginning; my deskmate here noticed it right away, too. We’d been studying on our own before, trying to make sense of the lectures outside of class.”

_For the love of –_

“I’ll hear none of _that_ , Hades, it was your little _deskmate_ who brought the issue up in the first place. _Unlike the rest of you!_ ” Immediately Mitron returns to his reprisals. “We are behind _four days_ of class schedule because it took that long for one of you to mention something! And even then, the rest of you tried to deny it!”

The first thing to cross your mind at that was, _who does he think he’s calling little,_ but next you are filled with admittedly petty pride. It wasn’t like you were smarter for having brought it up – although in retrospect, it was obviously the smarter thing _to do_ – but being better than Hades at something was… Nice.

“You fools were going through entire class sessions without understanding the lecture and only after four of them did even _one_ person think to speak up about their confusion! What did you think I was going to do, _eat you?!”_

The rest of the class rather looked like they would very much like to be eaten, if it meant not having to face this particular lecture. At least they could understand it this time, you thought spitefully to yourself.

Hades’s face was almost entirely red. Having the professor point him out by name had definitely chipped at his ego.

You could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> University life writes the plot, lol. Apparently this is how most professors think of writing in pencil – “It makes a mess!” is what I’ve heard some math profs say. 
> 
> It _has_ come to my attention that canon!WoL is a bit broodier than the WoL I tend to write. While I do like the WoL I write, it’s nice sometimes to take a step back and change WoL’s behavior, and just see what happens. Especially in Amaurot, where the two of them have more reason to interact.
> 
> Anyways, let me know how you guys liked this chapter, it's pretty different from the others. I could write about the student struggle for days lol, but I feel like it wasn't quite sufficiently shippy/romantic enough for what I want this series to be. I did also change the summary, I like it much better now - hope you guys enjoy this change in pace :)


	13. Angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, what wouldn't he do?

“It’s funny,” You mention to him; this time in the Crystarium, in your room in the Pendants that overlooked the city, a view filled with the new night sky and lively town, “Some of the sin eaters are actually rather pretty.”

How funny of you to point it out. Of course _you_ think these fiends of misbegotten Light are pleasant to look upon. _You_ don’t go blind nearly every time you go outside, you don’t have that painfully bright white screaming at your eyes, souls bleached of color, painfully empty and ever-hungering.

“There are ones that look like angels.” Gazing out the open balcony, you look over your shoulder to see his reaction.

“And you know what an angel looks like, do you?”

An angel – a messenger of divine beings, a servant of higher powers; a sacred entity who bore words more sacred still.

What could be more sacred than the truth? The sin eaters are beasts, unthinking animals, unable to even _comprehend_ the reality of their situations, let alone give the truth the due it is owed.

He only sees you shrug in response, “No, but aren’t I allowed to imagine it?”

“Oh, my dear,” He drawls out, prowling close beside you on the balcony to lean on the railing beside you, “You can do better than that, can you not? Angels are divine messengers.”

“But there are no gods.” The counter is unexpected; he searches your face, your eyes, more closely. What had gotten you to come up with this?

“Hydaelyn and Zodiark are both primals, yes?” You clarify, not really asking, “They’re man-made, not a natural part of the universe like we thought they were. Just like all the other primals.”

“And yet their powers work on the scale of universes,” Emet-Selch drawls, restraining his instinctive desire to lash out at the affront to His nature. You know so little of Him – and so your words are ones spoken in ignorance, without true understanding. “Yes, they are primals, indeed, the product of the hopes and dreams of human will. But whyever should that mean that they are not gods, as well?”

A noncommittal hum graces his ears before you turn to face him.

“Am I an angel, then?” You ask, smiling at him that half-smile he’d given you from time to time. “Are _you?_ And Elidibus, Lahabrea – paragons and angels all of you?”

“Hardly.” The word suits none of them; they are not messengers, not even Elidibus, and you… well, he knows not the intimacy you have with Her, but he has neither seen nor heard of you speaking on Her behalf.

“You always do seem like you have something to tell me.” Spinning so that your back is to the railing, you meet his eyes, “You Ascians, I mean. Not that any of them ever did, before you.”

And who had you met?

Lahabrea – that man could speak and speak for ages and not _say_ anything, so verbose and prone to ranting. A man of words and action both, of scathing rhetoric and creation magic so advanced and convoluted none could understand it but him and you.

Elidibus – pfah. The emissary never _could_ bring himself to speak freely. Even now, all he did was speak of business, of orders and loyalty and duty and necessities.

Nabriales, Igeyorhm – they may have _wanted_ to tell you something, but would they have even known what, themselves? How the Ascended, re-created images of souls long past, built of scattered fragments and no small measure of donated aether, perceived the world around them. Whether or not they had their memories in full. Whether they had any memories of the time before Him at all.

 _Of course_ it is only he who says what he wishes to. And even then, withholding so much.

Inwardly, he is ashamed. Once more, you have surpassed him. You’ve been nothing but open and honest in your desire, presenting it immediately and accepting his response with clear and well-communicated delight. Seeking to express your affection in every way you are able, and in every way he can receive it.

“Yes, I suppose they wouldn’t have.” He rolls his eyes.

Elidibus did love to complain about how everything fell to him, and look at how he’d patently failed to deal with you in his every attempt. Surely, he could have come up with a better strategy than ‘be vauge’ or ‘attempted murder’ by now if he just _tried._ But no, the emissary left everything to _him_ to deal with.

“I’m glad.” Emet-Selch arches a brow at you, and you _wink_ at him, you precious thing, “I do love talking to you.”

His lips twitch, “Do you, now?”

“Of course!” You step to him, closing in, “Even if you say you are not…”

Had it always been so hot in here? The window is right there, completely open, and yet the cool night breeze feels like it passes his cheeks completely. He does not step back; he is not intimidated. He’s _warm._

“You’re _my_ angel,” You sing, grinning at him so bright he is struck with the irrational sensation of the Light bearing down on him even greater than before, “You’re always making me smile, you know that?”

“Is that so?” The noncommittal answer is the best he can do, throat straining with this unnamable emotion he does not care to examine.

And yet you draw all the closer, filling his mind with yet more emotions of depth and intensity he would prefer not to think about. Your side pressed into his as he faces the night sky, unmoved.

“Come on now,” Laughter dances in your voice, comfortable and filled with kindness, “You could hardly have failed to notice. I’m always happy when you’re around.”

Emet-Selch swallows because he sees as soon as you point it out. Scarcely can he recall moments where you frowned at him; all he has to look back on is your smile.

“You could be an angel,” He hears you say as you sigh, leaning into him, not even looking at him. “You have the face of one, you know.”

His face cuts a solid, slender shape, framed by wine-dark hair, short but waving back smoothly, tucked behind his ears. That pale lock framing his forehead along with its twin, curving around his cheekbones, ending in feathery edges that drew attention to his eyes. Black-rimmed, edged with tired dark that faded softly into his pale complexion.

Bright and shining like coins of purest gold; an angel indeed, for all the shadows on his face.

Emet-Selch doesn’t know what you want him to say – should he compliment _your_ appearance? You had not chosen it, as far as he knew; you could not control the shape of your body, of your face, not even the gender of the body which you had come into this world with. Nothing about your flesh reflects upon who you are, so how could you be pleased to hear praise for it?

“’Twas made to be pleasant, love,” And familiar, he does not say, “When you must spend years tied to one physical form you tend to shape it into something you are comfortable with. And for those of us who remain in a body for its full duration, by the time we die our younger faces are forgotten, and what new form we take we may shape as we please.”

“I envy you,” Emet-Selch hears you admit and he stands straighter at once, attention piqued entirely. “ ** _I_** have to get that rare, precious potion in order to change my body. Although the Aesthetician back home really can work miracles.”

A… _potion?_

One that allowed you to change your body? As he was able to alter his own? No such thing exists, but your tone is so offhand and easygoing; he can’t detect a trace of deception from you.

“Pray tell my dear,” He drawls his words out, low and sardonic in order to contain his complete and utter confusion, “What miraculous potion is this?”

“Oh, never heard of it?”

Digging through your satchel – even as storied and wise as he is, Emet-Selch cannot for the life of him understand how you fit so much in there – you hand him a philter of water, rummaging through it as you pass it to him.

“Does this potion allow you to change your form entirely?” If so, ‘twould mean you wore that form because you found it pleasing to the eye. He tries to refrain from making judgements until the truth can be ascertained. “Your sex, your race, skin tone, and so forth…?”

Surprisingly, you nod, smiling, “Sure can! You could go to sleep as a man and wake up a woman – or the other way around.”

Yes, that would be a good way to go about it. With internal forces, it is different, but an external force like a potion altering the form of one’s body – it could not be a painless process. Sleeping through it would pass over most of the worries and trifles.

“Am I to assume you have used this before?” He now freely roams his eyes over your body, taking the sight of it in in a new light.

The skin and the eyes; such a pleasant contrast – you’d shaped the face rather well, too. So fitting. He remembers how much you liked those slender, defined edges, a pointed chin smoothly angling up into a regal, sharp jawline. High, flat cheekbones giving off that perfect touch of nobility and maturity without losing a bare touch of youth. The long, aquiline nose – he was partial to such things, he would admit, part of the reason he’d taken up with the Garleans, and it suits your face perfectly.

“But of course! I try not to use it so often,” You sheepishly rub the back of your neck, smiling at him still, “Confuses the Scions and all. And I do like to… stick to certain things, I have my favored aesthetics.”

So did all the Ascians – he ruminates over whether or not to mention that.

“No!” You reach out at once to grasp the bottle he’d raised without thought to his lips. “I just told you, this stuff is rare!”

…What.

“This is…” What. _What._ “…This is water?”

He winces internally; he’d not intended for that last part to sound like a question, but. What.

Your sincerity is completely beyond question; the scolding glare you lay upon him is “Don’t be so obnoxious! Really, I would think you above this sort of thing. You can change your form to suit your will whenever you want, but for the rest of us, Fantasia is the only way.”

“Fantasia?” You couldn’t mean… “The water?”

“It’s not water!” Frustration is evident in your tone as you snatch it back from him, and slowly it starts to dawn on him, impossible though it may have been. “I told you how rare these things are! You don’t even _need_ it.”

So, not only _had_ you chosen your appearance; you had also been led, somehow, to believe that you needed this ‘fantasia’ potion in order to do it. A potion so rare and unique in its effects that you were not surprised that no one else ever used it or spoke of it. _Because it was a pretty glass decanter of water._

Emet-Selch would have burst out laughing, but easily does he realize that someone has made a _killing_ off of your ignorance concerning your own abilities.

At once his heart falls in his chest; a familiar feeling of despair. There is no winning this one, though he futilely posits the truth.

“This is water. Have you ever seen anyone else use this?” Of course you haven’t – it’s so ‘rare’, after all, he would not be surprised to hear –

“No. There’s only one way to get these, and it’s…” You’re not willing to reveal the source of your _ordinary water_ but it hardly matters. He’s too busy lining up all the possible arguments, to at least feel as though he’s done his duty trying to convince you.

“Has anyone else ever acknowledged its existence? At all? Have you heard of them referenced in any capacity by anyone, besides whoever you’re getting them from?”

Of course you haven’t, and of course it makes no difference; you are already long convinced you know what this does. What else is there to say?

“They’re _rare,_ I told you!”

“Has anyone _ever_ used one that you know of?” He has a headache already.

Your incredulity begins to fade unacceptably to a sense of strange bemusement, “Do you know what the word ‘rare’ means?”

“Obviously!” You are _impossible,_ “You have the Echo – _I_ have the Echo! This is not a matter of miscommunication! You believe something that is outright false.”

“False? It does exactly what I said it did! I could use it right now if I wanted to.”

His aether is _choking_ on itself, this impossible frustration building up within him with no outlet.

Are you mocking him? Is that what this is? But then why would you pretend to believe something so peculiar as a shapechanging ‘fantasia’…?

He looks at your face, regressed to its natural stoic state, and finds that he really, truly, _cannot tell._

Do you honestly believe what you propose? There’s no obvious way to convince you otherwise, not with you guarding that potion and asserting its rarity with such fervor. He could try and get you to use your abilities without the potion. But that would be a difficult task with you convinced as you are that you _require_ the potion.

You would be unable to focus on the parts that you could control, how to activate and direct the process yourself, while you had such an impression that it had always been started by some external force. But the actual process would have still been directed by you; _how_ did you think a _potion_ could do this…

“Emet? Emet, are you listening to me?”

“No,” He says casually, bringing a hand to his cheek; in the corner of his eye he sees your expression flit into annoyance and then an admittedly endearing confusion.

“But if you aren’t listening then how do you… know to say…” Seeing your brows draw together as look glance at him suspiciously is almost enough to make up for it all; unconsciously, he feels his lips drawn upwards.

And still you return his smile.

You’d be worth the effort; always. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to see you look at him like that, once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To this date, one of my very favorite scenes ever in The Office is the “This is the Lake” bit Michael and Dwight do. Dwight’s desperately exasperated tone throughout the scene is just so absolutely hilarious to me, it has me in stitches just remembering about it XD
> 
> Just imagine, if you will – Emet-Selch yelling to the absolutely 100% convinced WoL “This is water! No, this is WATER! There’s no potion here! It cannot BE that, _this is water_ -” the way Dwight talks to Michael as Michael drives into the lake. 
> 
> Anyways, I’m willing to admit all of these oneshots exist in one… nebulous… continuity… thing. But they could just as easily NOT. I do like writing dark stuff once in a while and I know of at least three chapters that aren’t compatible with the WoL/Emet relationship in all the other oneshots. So basically, take the chapters you like to think of as ‘going together’, and everything else is AU. 
> 
> Not that it really matters, but I do like to reference their relationship/behavior patterns as it’s kind of been built up throughout these oneshots and occasionally other chapters, sooo… IDK please tell me, this chapter felt pretty messy because I often go into these things with no idea what I write about (even smut has a tendency to appear out of nowhere) and it goes places and I feel like I haven't fully fleshed things out... maybe it goes with writing oneshots, I gotta get back to longfics... if I can...


	14. Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WoL in this chapter is explicitly female, referred to as "she".

Finally.

 _Finally._ It’s been eighty years – barely any time at all, but mortal bodies did ever drag him down, sap his strength along with his soul. After all the time he’d put into it, this flesh still betrays him.

If he’d had any expectations at all, he would have been disappointed. But Emet-Selch is a practical man, and well aware of the reality he faces. And he’s free, as well – _finally_ free – to retire to the void between worlds and sleep for the next thousand years or so, until Elidibus or some other woke him back up.

He remains for only the barest of moments once summoning forth Elidibus from the recesses of the rift between worlds; exchanging only very few words before –

Before Lahabrea shows up, looking decidedly worse for the wear.

 _Much_ worse.

In fact, the only thing that could have wreaked such destruction on a soul such as his – he would have had to have faced Hydaelyn Herself –

Oh, he _would,_ wouldn’t he? Lahabrea would go and nearly get himself killed, even when it was supposedly impossible. Just before Emet-Selch was about to take his rest and depart into the darkness.

Damn that man. Always throwing himself into his work with that same reckless abandon. Unafraid even now of facing the consequences, the emissary’s legendary tirade let loose upon him; he bears it with perfect dignity and determination, not dissuaded in the least.

To be unaffected by such a failure is the mark of either the greatest of fools, or the most steadfast of souls, and for all his faults Lahabrea has never been the former. He’s already examined his failure, decided what to do about it, how he must change to better serve his purpose, and put thought into action. The speaker bears the emissary’s frustration out of a sense of responsibility alone, a respect he grants most sparingly.

Working and working and working, Lahabrea slaves away over the millennia, sparing a thought for sleep only rarely, resigning to the void only when their schedule absolutely demanded it. ‘Tis his own manner of mourning, and by far the most productive.

He admires him, if he’s being honest with himself, but Emet-Selch is so rarely that these days.

He admires him knowing full well how self-destructive it all is. How desperately Lahabrea does not wish to sleep. An understandable desire; so understandable, he would take the nightmares for him. He’d not wish it on either of his colleagues, no matter how distant they had been before.

He admires him, but ‘tis still _unbelievably_ entertaining to hear Elidibus ranting at him.

“-which I cannot even comprehend. The Warrior of Light had fought the Ultima Weapon _twice_ already and you still lost!”

Lahabrea bears it in silence. Of course he does. Always so demeaning and unaffected; the man would sooner die than express shame, or, Zodiark forbid, _apologize._ No, he deals with it all internally, makes his resolutions from within, then sets himself to the task. An utterly driven and goal-focused mindset.

‘Twas what kept them going, throughout those years, when the rest of the Convocation had been Sundered. Why Elidibus does not press him too hard; he presses himself already, giving more than anyone would ever ask.

“Lahabrea. This _must_ stop. You cannot continue like this, especially not against Hydaelyn’s Champion. Your power yet wanes-”

“As does _Hers,_ ” He finally snaps back, arms crossed, “Yet sooner would you cower in fear before even Her weakness than challenge Her growing influence over this world.”

“Sooner would I concede Her whatever measure of power She may take in Her weakened state than lose the Source to another flood of darkness,” Elidibus corrects without a moment’s hesitation. “The balance must be preserved. For Him, for the world we wish to create – events cannot be permitted to spiral so desperately out of control once again.”

Ah, that’s the Elidibus he knows. A worrier to the last.

“You’ve spent long enough mocking me for weakness,” Lahabrea spits, a jab unexpected and yet entirely like the old crafty speaker who spent all his time in the Hall of Rhetoric, “You espouse concern for my safety and then deride the concept of my success in the next breath. Is it my power you distrust, _emissary,_ or is it my _judgement?_ ”

Did he even have to ask?

“That biting wit may be there, but your judgement is not what it once was, Lahabrea, not as the eons wax on and you continue laboring,” Voice cooling with concern, Elidibus relies on more emotional methods, attempting to soothe the ego he had just savagely wounded. He’d more luck trying to _glue_ the Sundered worlds back together. “’Tis a folly you are well acquainted with, we are all aware. Leave the Warrior of Light to me. You must rest.”

Lahabrea does not deign to respond and the impasse is immediately apparent. The emissary cannot command him, cannot command anyone. Such a rich irony; the Convocation _had_ a leader, and you’d left them in the hour of their greatest need. Had you not left them, they would not be in this situation in the first place.

“I thought we agreed; it is my turn to retire now, Elidibus.” He is not delusional; he’ll receive no gratitude for speaking up like this.

And still he steps forwards. If Amaurot only burns in his mind, that is all the better as far as he is concerned. Emet-Selch can relieve the Final Days for a few thousand more years. Lahabrea does not have to.

He does, really. He needs to stop, needs to rest, gather himself and regenerate the parts of him that were worn away when he threw himself into his Ardor.

Lahabrea needs to rest, but he’ll not be the one to condemn him to it; not when he knows so painfully well what awaits them in sleep. Being a complete being in an incomplete world is… taxing.

Each of them copes however they can. As much as they are able.

‘Tis a trifle, really, but he’ll not deny Lahabrea the feeling of being useful; of making progress towards their ultimate goal. Elidibus is more than capable of handling the rest.

Then again, with the deeply put-upon, long-suffering sigh the emissary emits, he may just be running out of that seemingly infinite patience.

“All that is to be salvaged from this mess is that Hydaelyn’s ability to project her power is limited. The others may enter there; with only six other worlds to worry about, we’ve an excess of members to dedicate to its stability.”

Lahabrea _still_ does not speak; there is no praise, no apology for his insinuations in the emissary's words, only cool calculation.

Another materializes in the darkness; cool and collected as Elidibus himself. Disgraced and eager as Lahabrea. _Igeyorhm._

Emet-Selch realizes when Elidibus turns to him that his presence had not gone unacknowledged, but the emissary’s gesture to him is bare and more for effect than aught else.

“You have been an abject failure as a partner to Emet-Selch. And any words of advice I have for you are sure to be in vain; I do not expect you will heed me any more than you have in the past. Therefore, Igeyorhm will accompany you on the Source.”

A smile flickers over his face; how fitting. As much sympathy as he had for the man, his attitude is completely, utterly _infuriating._ Lahabrea has no right to be so unaffected, not after the magnitude of his potential blunder. Their advantage over Her is time – they have all of it in the world, while She has no easy means of growing stronger, and each world Rejoined makes Him greater.

Nothing could be worse than if one of them were to die, as mortals were so wont to do. Being attached to one whose rashness had lost an entire shard would be an ever so perfect reminder. And while the emissary had no true authority among them, he did exert some influence over the fragments he had raised himself.

‘Twas a duty Lahabrea had taken little interest in, and now he pays the price for it. Entertaining enough, even without any visible reaction from the man.

Lahabrea nods, a short, curt gesture more to Elidibus than to Igeyorhm; he cannot stop her from following him and trying to thwart Elidibus’s intentions would be more trouble than it was worth. Surprisingly, the two of them depart as soon as they receive acknowledgement.

Fair enough. He’s no wish to tolerate Lahabrea’s sulking, either. Had it not been for her failure he might have protested Igeyorhm’s assignment as Lahabrea’s keeper, but those two rather deserved each other. She had lurked around like a beaten dog for long enough; and Lahabrea’s folly spoke for himself.

None of it is for him to worry himself with; the time for his rest is come.

He goes to leave, but –

Emet-Selch hadn’t felt anything like this in a _long_ time. All the time they’d been working in tandem on the Source, and Lahabrea had never seen fit to contact him so; Elidibus woke him through an echo through the rift. This is the touch of aether; distant and yet perfect in its clarity and of a concentrated intensity no spoken phrase could convey.

Standing still, he waits, silent and unmoving. There is no need for words; Lahabrea knows what he’s done. Emet-Selch waits for him to speak.

“…she was the one who struck me down.” It takes a moment for Emet-Selch to understand.

Lahabrea speaks of you _._ He means you _._ You struck him down.

It makes sense. They know little of Hydaelyn’s nature – they had so little time to study Her before She Sundered Him – but despite Her weakness She still reigns supreme, uncontested. ‘Twould be foolish of Her to surrender such a valuable asset as yourself unto death, being in a position.

It makes sense, but even still; you are Sundered. Eight pieces of Fourteen; a majority, perhaps, but hardly whole. Only barely approaching wholeness. There is no doubt in his mind that you’ve none of your memories, of your former glory and splendor –

And still you had defeated Lahabrea. Survived the Allagan superweapon whose capacity for destruction he knew all too well. He knows of events, of course, he could not have possibly gone ignorant, even as his mortal body began to fail him in fullness.

Disgusting thing. He’s glad to be rid of it.

Once, he had worried that he would miss the feeling of being in his own body. Yet another sacrifice he had made to further the will of Zodiark. Painless, paltry, barely anything at all, considering what his fallen people had asked to offer. No flesh had felt the same since, no matter how much time he had spent shaping it, infusing it with his aether.

Worthless, empty, _uncomfortable,_ all of them. How could he be at home in a body that had never known your touch?

“No doubt she will prove our greatest obstacle yet,” Lahabrea says, approaching him, a proffered hand matching outstretched aether; strange, almost intimate, but his clinical nature suggests otherwise.

Words are unnecessary; Lahabrea is not the type to settle for such meager descriptors. Not when he can show Emet-Selch the memory directly.

And how _glorious_ you are. Facing him down, striking at him with a blade of light so pure and true it near brings a tear to his eye.

The last he had seen of such a light, the whole world had been sundered. The last he had seen of you. It is a great and terrible thing, this echo of your former self. He watches through Lahabrea’s eyes, themselves borrowed from another.

You start out dull, a fragment not unlike all the others. Not worth noting at all; only an echo of color. Lahabrea can almost see it, but the shade is not unmistakable, not with how faded and feeble the soul is.

And then you begin to _shine._

Colors gather almost within you, shades shifting as what he recognizes to be crystals materialize within you. More and more and _more_ do you gather, and it seems, from Lahabrea’s perspective, that you shine, soul brilliant and glorious as it had been in days past. Her Blessing sets you alight from within, such a pure whiteness that only the barest of color remains.

It is your blue – it will always be your blue.

Lahabrea could not have possibly missed your potential upon your first meeting – or your second, or your third. He’s better than this and they all know it, Elidibus must know it. Stronger than this. _Smarter_ than this. However the years have taken their toll, Lahabrea is not one to suffer defeat so readily.

You are bright, but you are not _that_ bright. He should have bested you, even with Hydaelyn’s intervention. But…

Before his eyes, you grow. You’d _grown._ From a nuisance to a force to be reckoned with. With no guide, no truth, no real awareness of the legacy of the soul you bore – you’d grown into in nonetheless, all on your own. Always relying upon yourself, never asking for help, fighting gods all by your lonesome.

It's you. _You._

But not you, never you, it could never be you because the world was _broken, twisted, **disgusting,**_ a mockery of its true self and you could never be _you_ unless you were Rejoined, put together like the world should be.

He cannot look away, not when you stand against Ultima, not when you fight the Weapon once and then again, beating back such power as primals may bear without a single onze of hesitation or fear. You are _beautiful,_ your soul and color as pure and radiant as they had ever been, even with the Blessing blazing against your soul like some kind of brand. 

Emet-Selch cannot see this, he cannot look at this.

This isn’t _disgusting._ It isn’t pitiful or disturbing. It is less depressing than everything that had happened in the past twelve millennia – the _opposite_ of depressing. It wells and wells until the thoughts form unbidden, warmer than any he'd had in any of these mortal lifetimes.

What are you calling yourself now? How are you living your life as such a person, dragged along by Hydaelyn’s will and forced to coddle mortals so far beneath your notice?

Are you happy? Are you alone?

What does your face look like, in person? What does your _smile_ look like?

Even all Lahabrea can show is not enough, not nearly enough. There is yet more he wishes to see, but not from the eyes of another.

And it is his time to rest.

He withdraws from the visions, because the bittersweet taste in his mouth is more than enough. Any more and he would grow nostalgic. Entertain… foolish notions.

It is his time to rest.

When he wakes, the world may well be whole again. He’ll see the _real_ you, not this pale imitation –

Despite himself, he steps back. Lahabrea must take note of it but he says nothing.

Lahabrea is not the type to say ‘Thank you’ – and neither is Eemt-Selch interested in hearing it. But he shows thanks all the same, the prideful man, and for once in a long, long, time, Emet-Selch feels as though his colleague is not entirely lost.

(Yet.)

“Will you,” He says, starting, and then stopping in his place as Lahabrea pins him with his gaze.

What can be asked of Lahabrea? To kill you? To _not_ kill you? If there is a right answer, he knows it not. All will be righted, Emet-Selch reminds himself, all things will be righted; when the world is made whole, when Zodiark returns, He will set all things to rights. They will get back everything they’ve lost, everything they were forced to sacrifice.

So what does it matter, if some lesser version of yourself must die here and now? Eventually you will be returned, like you were _before,_ like you _should be,_ and not this echo of a legend you are now.

An echo of that legend is still enough – _more_ than enough – to humble his colleague. With a little divine intervention on _Her_ part, of course.

He catches Lahabrea’s eyes as his aether withdraws, and realizes he doesn’t have to ask.

Emet-Selch goes to sleep, retires to his dreams of Amaurot burning and everyone he loved dying or wanting to. He cannot call them nightmares, not when they are the closest he’s been to home in over ten thousand years.

He goes to sleep. He dreams of Amaurot, dreams of the city burning as it filled to the brim with monsters and the terrible sound echoed loud, the cry of a world taking its dying gasp –

– and _blue_. A flash of blue, a flicker, an old color but one he could never fail to recognize.

And for once, he dreams of you, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bleah. I wanted to write this, but with more Ascian bickering, but I also kept reminding myself that this series is supposed to be Emet-Selch centric. I've been getting a whole lot of ideas for Convocation interactions as a whole, lately, probably I'll be posting a oneshot sometime... Soon (tm). 
> 
> Hope you guys liked this still; it was a bit of a challenge to write affection for someone who's not present, and I know I could have done a better job, but I've made a commitment to myself to add new chapters regularly and I don't want perfectionism to get in the way of that. Stay tuned though bc I am totally feeling the smut lol


	15. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick and angsty little ficlet between chapters I've been working on for a while.

Hope incarnate, Emet-Selch hears in your memories.

_How they flocked to you, even when you left the Convocation._

_They offered themselves up to Hydaelyn. A new god, a different god, restrained and benevolent._

_A new god. Not Zodiark, who was **evil** for the cost of His summoning. For the cost of working miracles._

_Even as they sacrificed in order to end the sacrifices, they entrusted you and Her with all their hopes and dreams. They would entrust you with the future._

_It might have been poetic. Beautiful._

_Had that future been_ theirs _to entrust._

****

He finds the description disturbing in its accuracy. Mortals are not perceptive creatures.

You had always had that effect on people. She had.

Making them more than they were. Empowering them beyond mortal limits, unworthy as they were. Inspiring, protecting, an ever-flowing wellspring of power and righteousness.

Leading by example.

_“To preform the summoning… Lahabrea, what is this? You cannot possibly mean for **us** to be the conduits.” _

_Your words make no sense. The attention of the entire Convocation is on you. They wait in silence._

_“Who else?” Lahabrea is not patient. He cannot afford to be._

_Amaurot cannot afford for them to be._

_“Hythlodaeus – Diogenes, Prometheus, our predecessors, the Akadaemia – anyone but **us**!”_

_You, too, are driven to an uncharacteristic display. One of emotion, of abject horror. Almost outrage._

_“How can you present this plan to them, Lahabrea? How can you possibly go to those people and tell them this is your solution, and also decide that **you** must be among the ones saved? Surely you realize. The implication.”_

_They do._

_“We are in the best position to preform such a magick; you cannot expect us to teach to others what we are only barely beginning to create and comprehend in our own desperation.” Lahabrea turns to rationality, which has yet to fail him._

_(He’s lying and he knows it. Amaurot is filled with brilliant minds. He knows he could teach it and you know that he knows._

_They all do.)_

_“The true implications to be considered are the long-term effects. To lose even one of our number would be a grievous blow – to lose the entire Convocation, and be left with but half our race as survivors? Our plan will work, it must work, and if – when it does, there will yet be a world to rebuild!” Elidibus does not oft raise his voice._

_(They’re so self-important. They think they know everything. They’re self-important but they are also self-aware._

_The people of Amaurot are good and wise and resourceful. They will rebuild, with or without them. The Convocation won’t be lost – the titles remain, and the positions will be filled, even if they all die.)_

_If the emissary cannot convince, he must do his part. As the one closest to you._

_“We – we cannot entrust this responsibility to any others. This is our solution, and we must see it through. How hard will it be,” He chokes on his words, “How hard will it be for those who succeed us, to live up to the legacy of Fourteen martyrs? How hard will it be, learning what they do, knowing that their learning is for the death of their teachers?”_

_(The worst excuse. And the only honest one._

_He could never lie to you.)_

_“If we decide the best solution is to sacrifice, then it is our responsibility to be among the ones sacrificed. Half our number.” Your voice goes low and they strain to hear you. “ **Half** our people. They trust you with their lives and our future, but you cannot trust them.”_

_(You leave. He can’t bring himself to stop you. None of them can.)_

_{He gets what he wants._

_You survive.)_

You had so much more hope. So much more faith, conviction, and devotion. Your love for your people and their future was, truly, without limit.

Sinfully, he thinks to himself; perhaps this is why Hydaelyn struck Zodiark down. For all their fervent pleas, they had no choice in calling Him. They had been afraid. Lost, crying out helplessly into the abyss with naught but theoretical designs and aether born of the souls of half humankind.

How certain you had been, after they had given their lives for you, that opposing He who their fervent pleas had summoned was the answer. How _many_ had heeded your call, when you spoke against Him in defense of the future.

Desperation and resolution. Fear and trust. Despair and hope.

He is not certain you have ever felt fear in your life.

_It is not death they fear. When the Final Days come they wish to be dead. They wish to be among those to be sacrificed. Those who will not have to watch._

_They are afraid of the future. They are afraid for the future._

_The city burned, the oceans ran red with blood, the sky tore open like a great wound in the world itself._

_It’s not the destruction. It’s the despair. Hope, it seems, has abandoned them all._

_Still they work to summon Him._

_(They have nothing else left.)_

_In the depths of their suffering, as they cry out, souls torn and bodies forsaken, their world crumbling down as their future is taken –_

**_He_ **

**_comes._ **

****

**_He comes for them._ **

It must be a terrible thing, to watch those mortals, thinking them human. Watch them die, over and over, knowing there is naught to be done but cut short more lives and end the chain. How pitiful a creature Hydaelyn must be, to watch over them and mourn them so.

But, he looks at you, you who still fight. Your soul is shattering from within. Your friends have abandoned you for having him as a companion. Your companion watches your soul fill with Light and does nothing to save you.

You search still for the next Lightwarden, ready and willing (and yet able) to take its Light upon yourself, that this world may live, just a little longer.

How sad it must be, to be you. To nurture and protect and defend only to watch all these mortal lives die in the end.

But you would never give up, as many times as you died you would be reborn.

For you are a being of Light and of hope. The element of stasis and of preservation. It’s simply not in your nature to surrender, to let go. If you had been able to give up, you would have never summoned such a being as Hydaelyn.

You would continue your doomed struggle unto death and beyond, return as many times as it took, for despairing of the darkness belonged just as much to Him as the dark itself. His realm is darkness and despair as He had been summoned, chaos and all the potential for change and creation that came with it.

And where did that leave Her? You? Weeping for all those in your perfect memory, preserved by Light eternal.

For all those you had failed to save; doomed to die as soon as they were born into this Sundered world.

That, too, is your doing. Your future.

It is a sad thing, Emet-Selch muses as he approaches you, dark aether like a stain upon the desert. He calls out the name you go by now and you turn to him immediately. Delight blooming bright in that soul, broken as it is.

To see that smile again – it makes him hope.

A sad thing, but a beautiful one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short little experimental thing between chapters. I’m trying to branch out into different styles, especially for an upcoming series I have in mind. Reading other fics can be frustrating; a lot of the time I read through fics (generally outside ffxiv) that I enjoy to spark inspiration and maybe get an idea of what kind of thing I’d like to write next. I don't think I'm so good at capturing a mood and getting across more abstract ideas without awkward wordiness. But I did write and edit this in one night so that's cool XD


	16. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only kind of BDSM and kinkplay Ascians engage in is 100% sane, safe, and consensual. Any evidence to the contrary is Hydaelyn’s propaganda.

He’s not letting you touch him again.

He gets like this, sometimes. Every so often when your desire is the greatest, when you tug most desperately at his clothing and press your body into his just a touch harder than other days. Once in a while, instead of accepting, Emet-Selch bids you stop, commands you step back.

And you obey, faintly ashamed, but unwilling to show it, because how would that make him feel, to know you were ashamed to want him? You could never be ashamed to want him, but your cheeks heat nonetheless. Rejection is not easy, and to be turned away after showing such fervent affection burns you inside, but you do not wish to touch a man who does not want you to touch him.

So you part, take the moments to calm your excitement, to soothe your nerves.

His eyes are the cruelest salve to your frustration; burning and stinging as that precious, pretty gold heats you from inside, draws you in. But he’s looking at you, always looking at you.

And that’s enough – that would always be enough. If he just _looked at you,_ paid attention to you, gave you his time and his words; for all you longed to touch him, just that would be enough. You only want him, after all, and it’s not for the pleasure he can make you feel.

His eyes are on you the whole time, fixed upon yourself, or perhaps something just beyond. You know how dearly he covets your aether, the color of it, the very essence of your soul. Maybe that’s why he disdains such physical unions and pleasures – because he wants you to unite with him in other ways.

Because it reminds him of someone. Someone he used to know in that lost city of his; in that ‘sundered paradise’ he spoke of so wistfully. He thinks he’s so clever – he thinks you can’t tell. You’re sure of it.

That just makes it hurt all the more, in moments like these.

Still, the chair he ties you to is a soft thing with wooden legs and generous padding beneath you. The armrests are thoroughly pleasant and you can almost forget you’re tied there – it’s not like it would keep you there if you wanted it off – but the sashes he winds around your wrists, your ankles, are a smooth tug, an ever-present pressure you can only just barely ignore if you direct your attention elsewhere.

They’re made of a fine material that feels nice against your bare skin. With but a snap of his fingers you are naked entirely, the fabric wrapped about your hands and feet the only thing covering you anywhere.

Not that you’d been wearing much to begin with. Oft were your own clothes the first casualty of your lust; Emet-Selch seemed to prefer to make you work to undress him, if he allowed it. He stands before you now decked entirely in that same Garlean regalia, robes fine and just a touch gaudy.

Perhaps all Ascians are like that about clothes. Perhaps not. There had certainly never been a reason for one of them to undress before you until him.

A pulse between your legs distracts you, painfully. Hot and heated and agonizing, pleasure unfulfilled. Crying out to be touched.

And Emet-Selch _knows it._ You can see it in his eyes, gold and flickering in the dark like firelight that’s lost its heat.

It doesn’t help, not in the least. Seeing the fervor in his face that he can’t hide, or perhaps that he won’t hide, knowing that there _is_ want there, hidden past his carefully indifferent expression, it sends more and more warmth to your lower half. Heartbeats thrum through your arousal, just barely not bared to the air.

How you _feel_ it. Skin, just begging to be exposed with every pulse, the slit between your legs covered by hair, folds hidden between your lower lips. Tied as your legs are, you can’t even part them further, can’t rub your thighs together. You cannot show him how ready you are, but he sees, he sees and he won’t even _touch_ you.

Something, _anything,_ please, even the open air would be better than this immobility. The only thing close to stimulation you receive is the flow of your own blood through your arousal, excruciating awareness of every ilm of your folds, every crevice and valley you wanted him to caress.

On instinct your hands make to move, tugging against the restraints. As soon as you meet resistance, become conscious of your movement, you halt, but he’s already seen it and he laughs.

It makes you think of his tongue on you. His lips. His _teeth,_ gentle, even in their play bites. Long, elegant fingers, always twirling and trickling against you, unpredictable patterns and glorious contact, the feel of him all over, everywhere, yours to touch and hold and _feel._

“Please,” You say, because he’s said nothing, “Please touch me.”

“Begging already, hero? For me to touch you?” He asks, tilting his head to the side, as though there’s an onze of doubt in either of you.

Emet-Selch strolls across the room, walking to the side, circling. He can’t fool you, though. He doesn’t ever take his eyes off you. Eventually he stops, in front of you again, letting you look at him even more. Look up at that beautiful, wicked, mournful face.

“I don’t think I will.” His eyes gleam in a terrifying wickedness, lips tilting up only on one side, that half-smile you so adore.

It's not so bad, being denied. Not as long as he looks at you like that. Like you’re his whole world, the moon and stars and earth all in one, that sundered paradise and everything within it.

A true paradise it must have been, to have him longing for it so. Whoever he loved, he’d loved dearly, deeply.

It escapes you entirely what he wants you to do, in times like these, and you are never… self-aware enough to ask. Always, he stands back, prowling like some kind of predator you know he isn’t, looking like he wants something from you, and because he cannot get it, you should not get it, either.

He tells you stop, sometimes, ties you up like this naked and wanting before him, in some strange gesture that has to have a deeper meaning of which you are unaware.

He’s done this before, but he’s never been so… _mean._ You don’t know what to do with this – with this smiling man who seems to take pleasure in turning you down. He wants you, too, doesn’t he? His eyes, how he never took them off you, how his body and movements never strayed from your orbit, centered around your fixed position in the chair; he wants you. He wants _something_ and whatever it is, he thinks you have it.

“What do you want from me?” Would he even tell you?

“Hmmmm.” So he won’t. How kind of him to let you know.

Perhaps what he really wants is to watch you suffer. It’s a special kind of pain, sitting here, unfulfilled, wanting and wanting and _wanting, **so badly,**_ everything right there in front of you in the form of one far-too-heavily clad Emet-Selch, but you _can’t do anything._

And yet still you are – not satisfied. But content. He is looking at you still, with those beautiful eyes, that sharp, almost mournful countenance, all smooth edges and perfect lines of his face, his forehead framed by hair dark and white.

“ _Hmmmm_ ,” He hums again, lounging to the side, arms crossed.

It’s a lovely purr, like caramel or butterscotch. Rich and overpowering in its flavor. Flowing over you like his aether, only you couldn’t feel it, couldn’t even see it. Only his eyes are visible, glowing in the darkness, filled with an irresistible promise of denial.

Tongue darting out to lick his lips, a dull red between lips dark like bruises. You know what that tongue tastes like. What it _feels_ like when dragged across your skin, across your aching –

“Please,” It escapes you without your active knowledge, as the heat between your legs sparking into electric tension, excitement.

Emet-Selch hums once more, but it breaks into a bit of a chuckle as he shifts his weight again, a sound that rises and drops in the air, dragging you along with it. Notes of laughter that sound in your ears, so enrapturing that you hear the breaths between as though they are notes in themselves, a sound that lifts in your chest and drops it just as quickly, sending your heart pounding further. 

Sparks of excitement catch into electric flames, your arousal pulsing with his every sound. You can – _gods,_ it feels lewd, perhaps you’d been forward with him in your intentions but this is another thing entirely – you can _feel_ something pooling at your entrance, something more than the steadily building heat.

“I do _so_ enjoy it when you beg, though,” He says causally, voice lowering. His voice was on the higher side to begin with, so as it lowers it smooths, “Such _want_ you bear, my dear. So much desire.”

Every word he speaks only gets you wetter. You’re not sure if you’ll stain the chair, but the idea of it exciting, almost. Proof of your arousal leaking from your empty, aching sex, trickling down until it met the plush fabric just beneath you. Surely it would be darkened with moisture – if the scent itself wasn’t an obvious enough indicator.

It's almost enough to be humiliating – but Emet-Selch knows exactly what he’s doing. He means for this to happen. What do you have to be ashamed of? He knows you want to be touched, he tied you up and removed your clothing and he’s keeping you here and teasing you like this.

He’s clearly doing this for his own satisfaction. Be it the satisfaction of seeing you beg, of seeing you so helplessly aroused and wanting, or some kind of power trip; this is all happening by his will. It makes him the lecher, not you, if anyone is.

“Even if you’d never approached me, I would have **seen** it on you.” The word emerges from him with a particular amusement, like an inside joke, as his eyes roam your form. “It’s all there for my viewing pleasure. All that desperate desire and passionate fervor… just for me.”

Stepping forward towards you, close enough that you could reach out and touch him, had you the use of your hands, Emet-Selch grins down at you with a terrible, wicked joy. Gaze fixed on your face, pretty lips parted and poised to strike and _not touching you like they **should be.**_

What is he waiting for? Does he want you to break these binds? He cannot mean to taunt you until you break free and ravish him; he must know you’d never risk him running away.

The worst thought of all is a thing far more unbearable than the unfulfilled lust that pools in your entrance, dripping down onto the chair in a wet, tactile reminder of just how much you wanted him.

If he were to leave you here, teleport away without another word – tear his eyes off you –

After everything, that just might be what kills you. All you’d faced, all you’d fought, all you conquered – and it would be him looking away from this shameful state he’s intentionally keeping you in that kills you.

“Oh, my dear, sweet, _precious_ thing,” He drawls, dragging the word out with an irony he seemed to savor.

So precious he can’t take his eyes off you.

So precious, but he won’t touch you.

“What _ever_ am I to _do_ with you…?”

His voice is a song, and your arousal pulses in time with it, rising to a desperate heat with the high notes of his flourishes, and dipping agonizing low at his dramatic pauses. He sings to you of your own arousal and he loves it, he watches your body dance to his tune even as your mind remains fixed on his every note ringing in your ears.

He's behind you now – _behind_ you, fighting instincts rear within you, comically out of place and yet utterly striking in urgency. It only makes your heart beat all the faster, the idea of danger dismissed as soon as it came up, your only fear the possible lack of fulfillment, the idea Emet-Selch will leave you wanting.

If he touches you anywhere, you’ll come. Even on the shoulders, even on the hand, the face – _gods._ What his skin would feel like against yours – you’d felt it so many times, and that’s almost worse. It was so _good,_ even the memory of it, soft and smooth, eternally fresh and with youth and vigor, and yet lean and pale as though with a tired world-weariness even in his apparent agelessness.

And of course he teases you, only letting his breath just brush your ear. Every sigh has you shuddering, and every movement reminds you of your woeful restraints, of the painful arousal between your legs, pulsing with desire.

You whip your head to the side, knowing better than to expect him to slip up and make contact; you’re right. His face, however, is right there, ilms from your own, golden eyes blinking back at your widening ones.

The sight makes your heart _lurch._ Emet-Selch has his hands overlapped on the very edge of the chair’s back, resting his very chin on it. Shoulders reared up in a mockery of a shrug as he leans down, making himself nearly eye level with you.

It’s the very image of a smug pout, false indignance dripping from his lips. His face narrows low into a smooth, defined chin, the harsh line of upper jaw painting shadows on his cheeks.

 **“My dear,”** He croons, in a language strange and even, each syllable like the note of a bell, drawn out and laid upon your ears as your lower half pounds with lust, **“Whatever is the matter?”**

The sound of it is beautiful and painful to hear. A strange lilting speak; with the Echo, meaning accompanies the words, what he says is clear, but the unfamiliar sound resonates with you in a way other unknown languages do not. It’s pleasant, almost lovely, and something about his voice is still recognizable, even in the strange, artificial-sounding notes.

There’s no reason to answer his question; he knows already, what is wrong. He’s _looking_ at you, he can _tell._ You’ll let Emet-Selch put you in this state because you’re weak to him, so weak, but if he wants you to talk about how desperate you are to have him touch you, he’s another thing coming.

He knows what you want and he’s not giving it to you anyways. If he wants you to beg for something he’s intentionally denying you, mayhap he can stand to beg for it himself. The thought has a smile ghosting across your face, gone in an instant, though you see his eyes narrow in on it at once.

Brows drawn tight together, he licks his lips, then purses them, shoving himself away from the chair and standing up straight. Ire clear in the force of his motions, the chair jerking beneath you ever so slightly. Thighs, bare skin, brushing raw against the fabric – nothing like the touch you want.

He stares, silently, drawing away, waiting. Staying behind you, just out of the range of your vision. If you spin your head to look back the other way, he’ll surely move over, mocking you even more.

Is this some kind of punishment? Maybe he’s angry. Emet-Selch has made it clear to you how little he thinks of the “pleasures of the flesh”, despite indulging in them. Maybe he’s gotten tired of indulging you. Maybe he’s angry with you.

So you sit there, quietly, body and soul completely bared for his pleasure; but only one of them held any appeal for him.

“Come now, tell me what it is,” He purrs lowly from the back of you, and even the throes of lust are not enough to disquiet your natural instincts. Without having contact, without seeing him, your nerves are set from excitement to anxiety, pooling in your gut along with your uncomfortable state of arousal.

Flesh tender and engorged, that has been left to buzz and ache with want for so long – it’s almost painful, now, no longer a sweet torment. Even knowing his game, you can’t help but want fulfillment, you want him to help you, he should _want_ to help you.

“Em-” You begin, and a pang runs up your lower half; speaking is strangely difficult, as focused on your senses as you had been. “Emet.”

A choked “please” almost escapes you, but pride halts it in its tracks, no matter your discomfort. What use is begging if it won’t get you what you want, anyways?

Emet-Selch pretends not to hear. It’s not his name, after all. No matter –

No matter how it made him want to _sing,_ to cry your wretched title back to you, to hold you to him and open all his mind and soul and memories to your perusal.

“Yes?” He whispers into your ear, but by your shudder, one would think he had shouted it. “You’ve gotten my name down, dear, but you really _must_ learn to vocalize yourself. Whatever is it you want so badly?”

He teases you, the cruel creature, voice coppery and humming with promise, an invisible power running through his every word, paralyzing you with desire. All on you, his attention is all on you – the center of his universe in this one moment, no matter how wicked his intentions may be.

“ _Emet.”_ Your cry of his name is more like a sob.

Your breaths are not breaths anymore; they come out as pants. Low, desperate, wanting. Every ilm of you tingling, crying out for his touch.

It never does cease to amaze, just how much you long to _touch_ him.

“Needy creature,” He mocks you, but his voice is fond, his eyes warm. “You clingy, greedy thing. How shall I ever satiate you? All you ever do is want more, and more.”

Emet-Selch knows he’s unlikely to get an answer, but he does want one. How does he satisfy you? What can he do to quench your thirst? To purge this unseemly, desperate desire from your being?

Tell him, so he can make sure he never does it.

This longing in your eyes must never disappear. This aether, blue and brilliant and coating him in all the warm feelings he’d forgotten; if he ever sees it and doesn’t feel it reaching out to him, he’ll **die**.

You must never stop wanting him. You cannot be allowed to feel satisfied. Not if it meant you wouldn’t touch him anymore.

Something inside you visibly strains under the effort, under the weight of all your desire, the state he’d put you in and how he continues to deny you. He watches it, a soul not cracking, but warping, bowing to the pressure as a breaking dam, crashing under the force of your need.

“Please don’t tease me,” He hears you say – _oh,_ what exquisite an agony it is, to hear your voice cracking like glass in your throat, “Please don’t tease me.”

Emet-Selch listens to you beg in amusement but equal parts worry and disquiet pool in his gut; the vessel reacting to the turbulence within, his aether that tugged him towards you even as he denied himself intentionally. Denied _you._

“Please, I’m sorry, please just tell me what I did wrong, I’m sorry-”

And then it’s enough, he’s heard more than enough, he rushes forward to embrace you, cutting the soft ties with violent, corrosive aether with nary a thought. The nausea fades when he has you in his arms; his soul stills at your touch, warm and longing and trembling as it is. He cannot but tremble in kind, but it is his responsibility to speak, because this sorrow of yours is of his own making.

For you to think he is angry, that you have acted wrongly or that he required apology on your part; completely unacceptable. So overeager he had been. Forgetting entirely how you could not tell his feelings without contact, how you relied upon your senses outside of aether to detect his mood. How you could not tell his soul from a glance – you needed to touch.

He holds you tighter for it.

“No,” He says, mind searching a thousand directions every beat of his mortal heart for the best thing to say to you. “No, you have nothing to apologize for.”

That is enough to relax you, your muscles no longer tense, but you don’t let him go, the press of your body into his is just as strong as he practically sits himself upon your lap to satisfy your need for contact. Your essence tugs at his still, and much of it follows willingly from his body, wisps of violet ghosting from him to you, curling about you as though to contain your desperate reaching. As though to sate it with only himself.

“I meant not…” Words that would otherwise be hard to say emerge from his lips without a second thought; all that is left in his mind is how to soothe the soul he knows aches before him with words as well as touch, with everything he can give. “Naught that I did was meant to mock you, or deny you.”

You don’t say anything back, and now _his_ heart is aching, crying out for him to say the right thing.

Emet-Selch is not the speaker. He does not _know_ what the right thing is, only that he deserves to be hurting right now, because think of how much _you_ must be hurting, you poor, precious thing.

Sweet, silvery-blue aether brushes against him like teardrops warming at his presence. You are no longer lax, but you are trembling, shivering; no, no, no, he hadn’t meant it like that-

“Those mocking words were meant for me.” He says, and Emet-Selch realizes as soon as he says it that _they were._

All he ever does it want more and more. He needs you. He needs all of you. He’ll not let you go, not even if you begged in that voice he loved so much. Not even if you struck at him with all your might, all that terrible power of Hydaelyn and the Light; he’d find his way back to you, somehow, the touch of his color would _never_ leave your soul.

“You must know that I,” He does not say it, “You must know. I do not wish to be parted from you.”

It’s absurd not to say it at this point. His aether burns with it, you can surely feel it warm and hot and soothing against you. You must be able to feel it through his soul, always reaching out to yours upon your every meeting. Radiating his feelings clear as day, had you but the eyes to see.

An easy thing to forget. Still, he makes do, and what is not visible to your eyes you can feel for yourself with him so close. Now that you are where you belong, in his arms.

Quicker than he’d imagined, your arms snake around him in return, pulling him plush against you, his regalia pressing into your bare skin as he bore down on your lap. You shudder once again at the contact, but ask for nothing, instead lean into the feel of his body against yours.

Aaaah. Poor thing. You had been terribly aroused, and he’d offered no relief. He’s not in the mood to play around with you, either, after such a while your sensitivity is most likely quite heightened. Granting you release would involve touching that raw, tender flesh between your legs, hearing cries of pleasure twined with agony he had no wish to cause.

Instead, he strokes your aether with his own, soothing, cooing words to you in the native tongue you knew nothing of. A thought and your clothes are returned, but his particular frame of mind has them glamoured in the fashion of Amaurot, plain and black and ever so soft. A gentle fabric that would neither chafe nor unintentionally stimulate.

He's rewarded with a long, low whine of relief, a flood of emotions rushing from your soul into his. Finally, something he _can_ do, a comfort he’s well-equipped to offer; a chance to comfort you. Wincing at the tide of your feelings – insecurity, anxiety, _Maybe he’s angry, why is he calling you needy, why is he making you **feel like this** , you just want to stop feeling so **unwanted**_ –

The simplest answer is also the best. Bearing your emotions is nothing compared to how it must have felt for him to have caused them. He opens up, more and more, allowing affection and adoration to flow free; your wit and your brilliance, that same determination and drive, that endless devotion that had you serving _Her_ –

Had you sitting there for his pleasure, sufficiently pleased just to be in his prescience _._ Nothing in the world could be better than being so loved. He’d sooner _die_ than lose you, too. Emet-Selch shudders even at the thought, at an unbearable loss his conscious mind yet cannot bring itself to deny.

Even opposed as you are, there’s no letting you go. Which of you is needy, greedy? Insatiable? He means to have the world, have it restored and Rejoined and have Him bring everyone back, as well. And you, too. No less would be acceptable. You must not be lost again.

He does not acknowledge it even to himself, certainly cannot verbalize it, but his feelings must be made clear all the same. Your soul grows warm, and warmer, the heat of light, reciprocated affection, the steady glow of love that would light even the deepest depths of the abyss.

Emet-Selch loves the dark, worships it, even. But it does get lonely there, sometimes. Zodiark is gone, He does not speak, He does not respond to their dutiful prayers and does not return their adoration, though it is through no fault of His own.

Indeed, if there is any at fault, it is _them,_ for failing Him – _you,_ for banishing Him in the first place –

You shift against him, your soul nearly suffusing his, flooding his vision entirely. Memories of friendship and loyalty and protection flow through you, sacrifices and impossible battles fought and won, journeys taken and stands made and smiles shared that somehow made everything worthwhile.

Being blessed, being protected, and sharing that protection with others, no matter if they could return it or not. A joy like no other, to hear them aiding great causes in your name; to hear them working to return your devotion. Everything that you thought of when you thought of what you felt for him. That word named ‘love’.

A warm, blue soul, suffused with light though it is; it is also possessed of a pure light, that of Hydaelyn and Her ilk. A soft thing, like sunlight against his soul, warming gently on contact, a heat that spreads through him without the slightest discomfort.

He feels your arms tighten around him, you bury your face into his chest to hear the beat of his heart. The last dregs of excitement calming, cooling and darkening at the stroking of his aether even as your soul glows at his presence.

Had the light always felt this… pleasant?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think, or at least I like to think, that I wrote the smut well, but a lot of the time I never really know how to end it... in this particular case, the part at the end where Emet caves and feels bad and hugs WoL was written WAY before most of the... uh... kinky stuff, and I kinda had to drag the conversation/story into that when I ran out of "Emet doesn't touch WoL and WoL is Not Dealing With It very well" to write. 
> 
> Anyways, I feel like this one was... exceptionally more kinky/erotic than the normal stuff I write, idk? Let me know what you think, I feel like I did good but I'm also torn because I probably could have ended it better... Hope ya'll liked it, or at least that you weren't left wanting - that much ;)


	17. Apology

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He concedes.

“Hades.” The acknowledgement is short, simple, and utterly bereft of its normal warmth. “Or should I say, the most honorable Emet-Selch? I just heard.”

From someone on the street, a kindly passerby sharing the latest news on the Convocation of Fourteen. From someone you’d never met in your life, before. You heard the news about _Hades becoming a member of the Convocation._

He wouldn’t even come tell you in person.

A sigh builds in his chest, but you’re too perceptive; any outward indication like that would have you drawing the most undesirable conclusions, never mind your normal attitudes.

He should have taken Hythlodaeus’s advice. What had he been thinking? You would open your arms to embrace him, after hearing this life-altering news about him from some stranger on the street? It had all happened so fast; Hythlodaeus refusing the post, Emet-Selch – the _former_ Emet-Selch, searching for a replacement.

No doubt Hythlodaeus had only been too happy to offer another’s name. And then the offer had been made, and he’d accepted, and that was it. Very little in the way of discussion and deliberation; to sit on the Convocation was a dream among dreams, an honor he’d long held in his heart but never seriously entertained. As all young children do, most like.

Not that any of this would spare him your disdain.

“You needn’t address me so,” He says in futile moderation, walking towards you across the room as though nothing was amiss, “My appointment is yet quite recent. I hear the title and my predecessor springs to mind, not myself.”

A peace offering. Carefully he inserts the excuse into conversation; a reminder of how recent all the events are. Plain humility, because Hades has at least learned from his mistake – if he does not say so now, you will throw it back at him later. Call him _only_ by his title every hour of the day, projecting a false veneer of haughtiness onto him until he makes amends.

“That will change.” Flat and indifferent, you stare at the book in your hands, refusing to even look at him.

Peace offering rejected, then. He must offer reparations.

“I wouldn’t want it to,” He says, deliberately misinterpreting your response, “Please, call me Hades.”

Your nature will compel you to respond, to clarify, with abrupt annoyance, and open the field for some pleasant conversation.

“As the most honorable Emet-Selch wishes. Hades.” The way you say his name has nervousness pooling in his gut, even with the knowledge that your dissatisfaction cannot be that great. He’s accustomed to you saying his name with a good deal more… warmth.

His tongue darts out between his lips, unconsciously wetting them.

You require additional reparations, then.

“ _Hades_ would appreciate it if you told him why you are angry, so he can apologize,” It’s childish of you, but saying that certainly won’t quell your annoyance.

“Hades is a grown man and a member of the Convocation of Fourteen,” You shot back without missing a beat, “I find it highly unlikely he is unable to devise a solution for this particular problem on his own.”

So you want him to _say it?_ You don’t deny you want an apology, but you won’t even admit that you want it?

“Perhaps you, being an adult yourself, can simply _ask_ for what you want, like a _mature-”_

“A mature person, who takes his partner’s thoughts and feelings into consideration?” You interrupt without pretense, annoyance thoroughly revealed, “I would never have come between you and your aspirations – but this _was_ a dream for you, what very well may be one of greatest achievements in your life, and you didn’t even tell me you’d been nominated at all. I found out about your new position just like everyone else.”

“My greatest achievements in life – my, you do me high praise, even in your condemnation. I suppose if I tell you that all I did was occupy a seat that had been vacated you would become upset about what you perceived to be false humility?”

“No, I’m well aware you’re a sulky, pessimistic creature.”

He laughs, even though he shouldn’t, because an apology is yet to be rendered, “This, coming from you?”

You go quiet quickly enough, returning to a displeased silence.

“I suppose you are the expert,” He says magnanimously, sitting himself beside you on the sofa, not making contact just yet. “The esteemed Emet-Selch defers to your superior wisdom; I concede, I am yet the sulkier of us two.”

This, unexpectedly, does not appease you. A more powerful technique is required; the one to which you are the weakest.

“You’re right, you know.” Admitting it doesn’t sting so much, but only because it is you, “I am quite the pessimist. I don’t – ”

Hades catches himself, luckily; self-pity is not appropriate at all for the moment. Such doubts should be reserved for when you are not upset with him. However little he may think of this slight, if it bothers you, that is reason enough to apologize.

It is rational; as the presumably wounded party, you would not be expected to _ask_ for concessions. One who was truly contrite would offer freely.

And he is contrite, just because it’s upset you. He’s not truly done anything wrong, but to express the sentiment would compromise his apology. Hythlodaeus was already far too satisfied with himself.

“I am sorry I did not come to you first once I was selected for the position. I should have realized that such momentous news warranted a personal delivery.”

“Did Hythlodaeus give you that line?” You finally speak, shifting on the couch, but not facing him.

“Is it working?”

The stony mask breaks – your lips twitch, ever so briefly. “If not, I suppose he did?”

“He didn’t, then,” Hades slides closer to you, his shoulder bumping your own, “And I promise, for the rest of my life, everything that happens to me-”

“It’s not working, not in the least, stop immediately, you _insufferable-_ ”

He _tsks_ in mock chastisement, “Is that any way to speak to the most honorable Emet-Selch? In any case, from now on I shall carefully examine the proceedings of my life, and quickly determine whether it is newsworthy or not-”

“Hythlodaeus has worn off on you.” You know him too well; little else would have stemmed the flow of his sarcastic tirade.

“He has _not._ ” He has and Hades knows it, but it’s more entertaining to argue.

You laugh, and he knows his apology is accepted.

“Would that I could see as well as him; I could compare your shades.”

Leaning into you, he proposes a compromise. “If I have adopted his habits of annoying others, you have adopted his habits of picking others apart.”

“You’re the one who does that,” You say it like an accusation, but every word is filled with warmth.

And that warmth is less still than what he feels when you lean back, wrapping an arm around him for an embrace, pulling him into you.

“Perhaps,” He concedes; only to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet practice, more broody!WoL. The Emet in the short story is shockingly clever and analytical, I like him the more I read it over again. It's nice to be back writing more dialogue intensive stuff. Not completely satisfied with it but in the spirit of "Update Regularly and Remember your chapters don't have to be 5,000 words long" I'll go ahead and publish it so I can move on to my more exciting works ;)


	18. Meal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voyeurism is implied this chapter. But it’s only actually happening if you think that’s hot. If not, Emet’s just assuming the worst of the ‘lesser beings’, like the bastard he is. Continue with your preferred interpretation.

Emet-Selch hasn’t stopped staring at the sandwiches since he got in here.

You’d already told him who they were from, and why, and he’s glanced over them with a noise and crossed his arms.

“If you’re hungry, my dear,” He says, lounging back on the table – glaring at the delivered lunch as though it had personally offended him, “I may just have something far more pleasant for you to partake of.”

It’s unusual for him to ask for you to do that, but you’re not at all unwilling. But to offer when he hadn’t meant that would likely end in some teasing, and you know full well how you’d react, being in the mood you’re in. And then you might not get any at all.

Falling asleep in his arms is by no means terrible, but you want to _touch._

“Then partake I shall,” You say, turning in the chair to face him, leaning your face on your hand, elbow bent on the table, “What sort of meal do you intend? Can you even cook?”

“Hmph,” Is all you get; in the snap of his fingers a dish does appear on the table, a glass beside it filled with a curious blue liquid you’ve never seen before in your life.

The food is unfamiliar, too. And you don’t suspect Emet is an avid connoisseur of cuisine on the First; he’d been to Eulmore, and he appreciated the finer things in life, but he wouldn’t bother with the trappings of a world he considered ephemeral.

You look at him. And then at the food. And then at him.

It smells delectable. Something that looks like a kind of steak; a side that you’d expect to be vegetables, strangely cut as though from exceptionally large specimens, bright and colorful looking. You can see a dark, rich sauce dripping from it, pouring over the meat as though it had just been glazed.

You look at him again.

“What?” Emet-Selch asks, in that tone that sounds innocent and painfully suspicious at the same time, with wide eyes of disbelief, as though he can’t _imagine_ there’s any reason you would doubt him. “Don’t you trust me?”

Absolutely, you trust him. He wouldn’t waste his time poisoning you if he wanted you dead. What you don’t trust is his palate.

The way you eye the meal must give it away, because he scoffs, crossing his arms.

“It’s not you,” You say, raising your hands in gesture of surrender, “It’s me. I don’t exactly have refined tastes-”

“A fact of which I am not aware. Or are you refusing my generous, handcrafted offer?” Far better an offering than that pitiful packed lunch. The Exarch can take his little affections elsewhere; whatever else there may be between you, you trust _him._

As you should. He would never lie to you.

You hesitate, but eventually dig in. Eating food on someone else’s word isn’t exactly easy, but cautiously, trying painfully hard not to think about his eyes on you, watching you eat. When you turn for a moment with a bite on your fork and see him sitting at your desk, picking through your journals.

There’s nothing for you to be embarrassed about in there; if anything, he’ll find some interesting details out about his colleagues. You turn back to the meal, bite after bite, and…

And it’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted; the texture is more like some kind of meat, but the taste is fragrant, hearty, a strange flavor you cannot place but that is no less delectable for it. One bite and you’re cutting yourself another piece, trying the side, which proves equally delicious and a fine compliment to whatever meat.

The drink is sweet and refreshing at once, unusual in tang and strength, but there’s no alcohol in it that you can taste.

You finish it off with ease and disappointing speed; the remaining food on the plate shrinks and you wish for more, even though by the end you’re completely full.

“Ah, finished already, are we?” That smug tone is closer than you expect; you stand and turn around, finding Emet-Selch mere footsteps away.

He’s smirking again, but you know what to do about that. Smiling back, you nod, gesturing to the finished meal, “It was wonderful. My compliments to the chef.”

The look that crosses his face when you wink at him sends blood rushing to your lower half, lust rising all at once.

And at once, he is on you. Clothes and outer dressings fly off, or maybe disappear, faster than you can catch him removing them, and he presses you against the table in a firm movement that asks you to hold still.

“Eme,” You begin, interrupting yourself with a gasp as he bites down on the bare skin of your neck, uncharacteristically sudden, “Emet, not that I’m- not that I’m complaining, but, what, what…”

Pants rise between your words as he draws a hand under your pants, beneath your undergarments, to toy with your arousal.

“What, brought, this… on?” A long, low moan comes after, and you hand your head to see his lips closing about a nipple, your shirt torn open and baring your chest to him in an utterly debauched display.

Instead of answering, he twirls his tongue about your nipple, slick muscle sliding over that sensitive nub, drawing it to a tight peak. Just barely, he runs his teeth over it, drawing a sharp whine from you as you lean into him.

Wicked laughter blooms on your chest – not from within, and when he parts, you hear it aloud.

“Perhaps I merely wish to show my lover some extra affection. Let you know you are appreciated.” His head lifts to kiss and lick at your neck, “Wipe clean any traces of doubt in your mind about my intentions towards you.”

Calling you his lover, hm? You’d blush, but you need to reassurance of your relationship with him, not after all you’d shared. But the gestures are nice.

You don’t at all notice the nuances you would normally catch. Know. Doubt. Intentions.

Emet-Selch has no desire for you to know – these words are for him alone. If he’s watching. Maybe even telling himself he’s doing it for your own good, your own protection.

The sagely Crystal Exarch, nobly watching over his wayward hero. Forcing himself to bear with your misguided tastes and luscious desires. Certainly, gritting his teeth the whole time. It must be so _hard,_ just to watch. To see the object of his (admittedly well-placed) desperate adoration and faith, giving yourself over entirely to _him._

Watching is fun. But only half the fun.

Biting down on your neck, soft, but making sure you feel the points of teeth bearing down on you, he draws a low whimper from your throat, vibrating against his lips. A sound made by you, _for_ him, for his ears only, though your lips are parted plainly, stirring will the flames of lust in his loins.

Lust he means to go unfulfilled; couplings are messy, tiresome affairs and he quite doesn’t feel like going through one right now. Oh, no, Emet-Selch thinks to himself, smiling, rolling a sensitive nipple between gloves fingers and hearing you respond with a low whine.

What's a bit of niggling arousal before the prospect of you crying out and shuddering in an utterly debauched display, at _his_ touch?

“Do, you…?” You pant without finishing, brows raised as your hand darts beneath his overcoat.

That much he permits you to shrug off him, but he makes no further mood to undress, to allow you to undress him. Every time you try to reach back he simply plucks a bit harder between your legs, smiling at the trembles he feels in your thighs, the weight of you leaning on him growing greater with every passing moment.

Not a matter of strength, this, but of sensation; of how he made you _feel._

“I confess I am not up to the whole grand affair of lovemaking tonight,” He hums low against your neck, pressing soft kisses to red marks left by the drag of his teeth, “But it seems I’ve made a mess of you, love, and I _do_ clean up my messes, you know.”

Throwing in the ‘tonight’ might have been a bit much, but if the Exarch only happened to catch tonight, for whatever reason – say, to see how his precious hero reacted to his little gift – it would be prudent to ensure he got the _whole_ message.

Those pitiful little sandwiches untouched in the center of the room, beside the plate you’d nearly licked clean. The stupid brat of a boy doesn’t know you, doesn’t know what you like, what you love. Whatever you and he had shared in the Source is _nothing_ compared to your past together, whether you remember or not.

He knows you. He always knows you, no matter what you look like, the form you take. The people you fight for.

Hades always loves you best, has always loved you best. No one can love you like he can. No one can _see_ you like he can, all beautiful blue and radiant cerulean glow, bright among so many faded fragments.

“I, I can,” You can still speak, a sign that you’ve quite a ways to go; a flick between your legs, the glove brushing against bare flesh, tight between your underpants and your arousal, has you whimpering, but you choke out still, “I can still, take care, of… you.”

Finally, he frees his tongue to draw over your skin, wet and velvety, licking a thick line up the delicate skin of your exposed neck, prompting you to suck in a breath as lips meet your jaw, nipping playfully.

“My dear, I assure you,” He says, pressing him body into yours, feeling the _warmth_ of you against him, “I am well taken care of.”

All he really needs is to see you. _You._ Shining for him, radiant and glowing at his touch, smiling and moaning and singing for him like you always did – like you do.

Oh yes, how he does watch you. Unraveling and moaning and flickering like a star at his attentions.

The way you blaze, how your soul rails out in heat within this mortal form, burning against its vessel as longing binds to lust and pulls below where he takes his mouth, opens your trousers. Your fingers in his hair, your praises in his ears, your taste in his mouth and your blue flitting just beneath the surface.

How you _gleam,_ how you shine with such impossible radiance as he brings you to completion, works his mouth over your sex and presses him into you as well as he does his tongue on your flesh. How you reach back, longing, _wanting,_ even as you come his name is on your lips, not the one he wants to hear, never the one he wants to hear –

He lies to himself once again. Whatever name falls from your lips when you call to him, that is his name; he will have no other. What’s the purpose in him having a name, if not for you to call him with it?

In your state of post-orgasmic bliss, cooing your love for him as you brush out the hair you’d knotted in your fingers, you hardly notice him wrapping you up, coating you in aether as he takes your tired form into his arms.

Most often he takes you to Amaurot, to sleep, most at home in that dark place filled with memories, but tonight he takes you to your bed in the Pendants.

Laying you out, laying beside you, helping you wrap your arm around him the way he knows you like to hold him, holding you tight so you can feel him close despite your tired state; it’s a far better release for him, to feel your soul _sigh_ in contentment. Soothing, cooling blue, calm and pleased and pulling him into this bliss with an urge as irresistible as you yourself –

As well it should. It’s your soul, it _is_ yourself. It always would be.

He smiles, holding you closer.

He smiles more when you find it in yourself, just a moment, to clutch at him back, and lay your kiss on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol at emet not realizing HE'S the real meal amirite
> 
> chapters about to get lewd up in here, the ones at fault know who they are, ilu guys but please stop my readers don't know what a kinky freak i am 
> 
> seriously i've been protecting u guys for a very long time some freaky tags are about to drop on u in preconceptions and no ones ever going to look at this fic the same again


	19. Apology II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He'd loved every moment of it.

“I – you cannot possibly,” There’s no mistake at the look in your eyes; you _absolutely_ are serious, “Your very suggestion is _degrading_ and inappropriate in the extreme.”

“What _suggestion?_ It’s an order! It took me three months to draw up those notes. And you’ve ruined _all_ of them!” You sound genuinely upset, but your anger is likely the culmination of several things. “My desk, my hands. They are a mess. You will clean them, exactly as I have instructed you to.”

He’s painfully reminded of several occasions of neglect on his part towards your relationship and personal feelings. The last incident being his nomination as Emet-Selch, which you hadn’t even known about until after he’d accepted it.

It would be easier to think you were being preoccupied with petty trivialities if there weren’t just… so… many of them.

The nomination, his business in the Words of Lahabrea that he hadn’t even _mentioned_ to you until ages after Hythlodaeus told you about it, the incident with Elidibus, how he’d failed to recognize your research with Lahabrea and _Igeyorhm,_ of all people, had pointed it out to him while the speaker just glared at him disdainfully; in fact, most every interaction with his colleagues he’d managed to make a fool of himself, and by extension, you, in his ignorance.

Much of it could be avoided if he spent more time with you, or if he’d spoken to you about the Convocation beforehand. If you’d _told him_ beforehand just how many of the Fourteen you were acquainted with –

You certainly would have told him, if he’d so much as asked. If you’d known about it in advance you would have celebrated with him and probably endeared him to his colleagues beforehand, as well.

No, he’s been foolish, in several instances, embarrassing himself as a partner and you as someone who had chosen him. This is the result, and he should be glad it’s something so silly and innocuous instead of some long, drawn-out argument.

You’ll have a talk, later, but for now he needs must accept this punishment as duly rendered.

He need not, however, accept it with any measure of grace.

“Don’t think of it as humiliating,” Hythlodaeus says, entirely unhelpful, “Just think of it… as… your mouth is open, and she _happens_ to be… inserting her fingers.”

How had this idiot _ever_ been considered for a position on the Convocation?

“Actually,” You interrupt Hythlodaeus, “I would prefer for him to think of it as humiliating.”

He nearly chokes on his own spit. Beside him he can tell his friend is preparing for an immediate retreat.

“Well, if that’s how it must be.” Hythlodaeus removes himself with all the speed and dignity of a man grateful to get away with his life, “Enjoy yourself.”

‘Enjoy yourself’? Did Hythlodaeus honestly expect him to – the idea is not even worth considering. _Traitor._

You probably think he was talking to you. Whatever must be done to keep it that way, he will do.

The sound of the door closing behind him Hades knows his fate is sealed, though perhaps it had been ages ago, when he made the first decision in a long chain of decisions that ended with your annoyance.

He blinks at you from under the mask; you must be able to tell his incredulity.

“Open up.” Not a single tremor or note of hesitation. He is well and truly doomed.

Hades sits down across from you, faintly grateful for the small size of your desk, scooting in to rest his face comfortably on his hands, elbows propped against the table. And then, deeply and remorsefully contemplating his life choices, he opens his mouth.

It's no small bit horrifying and an admittedly greater part arousing, how easily you reach out and dip your fingers past his lips. The tips just trailing over his tongue, hesitantly, and then delving in full, permitting him to close hips lips around them and set to work, ever mindful of his teeth.

He's in part grateful for your tastes, which run similar to his own. The drink you’d Created was sweet, flavorful on his tongue, with a peculiar heat to it entirely unlike spice, almost like liquid warmth pooling in his mouth.

The taste is entirely pleasant, _delectable,_ even; he might have preferred another fruit, perhaps with a tinge of sourness – but the sweet peach reminds him of you, the smell filling his senses as it spreads through his mouth, entirely welcomed.

He can imagine, for a moment, the taste is of you yourself; not entirely baseless in the sentiment, because this _is_ your Creation, your aether made into a design of your choosing, echoes of you, your likes and dislikes, your creativity and imagination, everywhere in the flavor of it. All coated on familiar fingers he’s felt on every other part of himself, _with_ every other part of himself.

Wrapping his tongue around your fingers, he threads it between them, drawing it close and slick to the base of your fingers, sucking over the knuckles with care.

And then there is a knock at the door, and his heart stills in its place when he hears it _open._

“Lahabrea,” You say, reaching out with your other hand to hold his face in place; now his cheek is sticky with your little experiment, “Come in.”

No. _No. **No.**_

The sounds of someone entering the room, and closing the door behind him, inform him yes, yes, and yes.

In his peripheral vision he cannot see his colleague, but with his hood and mask that does not quite mean Lahabrea cannot see _him._

 _You cannot be serious._ You’re not letting him pull away.

For an exhilarating and utterly horrifying moment, he wonders if he should bite. But then you would yelp, having no reason to conceal your pain, and Lahabrea would rush forward, and…

That is not sufficient cause to dismiss the idea outright. It’s highly unlikely the speaker’s opinion of him could get any _lower,_ considering recent events. What makes the idea untenable is the fact that being as you are, it’s not entirely unlikely you won’t just stick your entire hand in his mouth to spite him.

What a sight that would be for one of the greatest Creators ever to have a seat on the Convocation, walking in on you with your hand halfway down Emet-Selch’s throat. He might just laugh and walk out again. Or advise you to strangle him from the outside, much less messy that way.

Pushing his tongue down flat – as though he would make noise of his own volition – you smile over his shoulder at what must be Lahabrea in the doorway.

“Emet-Selch.” The greeting is stiff, even for Lahabrea. No, the man _does not like him_ at all, “I was unaware that you were occupied. Shall I return later?”

He should come back _never,_ but speaking is impossible with your fingers in his mouth. In the instant he sees you open your mouth his heart drops.

No.

No, no.

Don’t you _dare_ –

“Of course not,” You say smoothly, a warm, inviting smile on your face, _why are you like this,_ “What did you need?”

There’s a pause where he thinks for a blessed moment the intruder might just leave, and he is a fool to even dream of such luck.

“No matter of great import…” When you don’t dismiss him, just keep attentively smiling and listening, he continues, “I merely heard your latest Creation was entering the final stages. Igeyorhm had mentioned to me that it was soon to be realized?”

At this point there it seems impossible for the situation to become _worse,_ but to entertain the notion would be to outright invite disaster.

A faint flush reaches your cheeks, and with great annoyance does he realize it is born of true happiness and a demure pride from the interest.

… _He_ hadn’t known that you were working on such a Creation. One that garnered such interest from others. From members of the Convocation, even. Who stopped by during the day to check on you. Unlike him.

“So it is!” You chirp, nodding, bringing your other hand to the back of your neck bashfully, “Alas, there’s been a bit of an accident. The _esteemed_ Emet-Selch was just cleaning up the mess he made of it; perhaps he can tell you more about its realized form?”

He _cannot,_ because even if he had the slightest desire to ever speak to Lahabrea, _your hand is still in his mouth._

A finger pressed harder into his tongue, pushing soft flesh low, letting him feel your nail, almost. Drool pools in his mouth at the taste of you, heat rises up his cheeks more and more at the _look on your face,_ because he knows exactly the look in your eye, the tilt on your brow, beneath the mask.

“Emet-Selch?” The tone of your voice is not openly mocking, but only by the slimmest of margins.

You cannot _possibly_ be _serious._

And then it comes to him; or rather, it leaves him. All care or concern he may have once had is gone. If you mean to be like this, who is he to deny you? Whatever you expect him to do is well beyond his ability to predict. He shall take the route forward which has been presented to him.

He stands, holding your arm and pulling you to stand with him, shoving the chair back with a loud noise that he feels you jerk in response to. It’s a faint but satisfying thing.

Your fingers slip out of his mouth, slick with saliva, and he meets Lahabrea’s gaze as they do, leaving absolutely no doubt as to what had been happening.

“As you can see,” Hades says coolly, sliding his hand up to your wrist, keeping it by his mouth in a gesture that is just barely not overtly possessive, “I am _cleaning up_ my mess. I spilled her Creation over her desk and hands, and she bade me make use of my mouth. Specifically, on her fingers.”

There is nothing left to be ashamed of, no reason not to dedicate himself entirely to this disastrous idea, so, staring directly at Lahabrea, he sticks his tongue out, long and lolling, to drag across your finger. It twitches against him and that’s reward enough, come of it what may.

Lahabrea pauses, and though he cannot see the man’s eyes, he gets the distinct impression he’s looking at your face.

“Indeed, it seems I must commend you, Emet-Selch.” The smooth words have him grinning, the ghost of a smile tickling at the legendary orator’s face.

“What.” Hades hears from behind him, soft enough that Lahabrea has certainly not heard, _coward._

He _bows_ in the doorway, the ghost of a smile flickering true, and it occurs to him perhaps Lahabrea has heard after all, “I do admit I had rather a dim impression of you. I have yet to know you well, but I am ashamed to admit I did not expect such diligent responsibility from one such as you.”

“ _What_.” Your tone is increasingly quiet and also rising with urgent horror; quite the feat.

He feels his grin widening and that nagging idea of giving you a little nip returns, this time, far more palatable.

“My thanks, speaker.” He says, inclining his head respectfully, which has him nudging your fingers with his nose; fingers he still does not permit you to pull away. “Your impression was wholly correct – at the time I was behaving most shamefully, as a member of the Convocation who must acknowledge and celebrate my fellows Creativity, and as a partner.”

This might have mollified you, if he hadn’t continued.

“I am glad, however, that my efforts at repairing this have not gone to waste. At least by someone a neutral, unrelated party, who is more inclined to side with my partner than myself.”

“ _Hades!”_ You snap his name without hesitation, and internally he’s quite pleased.

Even when you yank at his hand, he doesn’t let you pull it back, smirking at you all the while.

“Enough of this,” With a hiss, you twist your hand so that _you_ are grabbing _his,_ “This is _not_ entertaining.”

“Perhaps I was mistaken,” Lahabrea says, tone rising with smug, absolutely fake incredulity, “I was under the impression Emet-Selch was acting on your will? At your command?”

Your _command_.

Hades begins to follow up, turning so he can face you and be in Lahabrea’s line of vision at once, but you suddenly slide yourself onto the desk, closing enough distance to shove your hand straight into his mouth and muffle his words.

“Yes, and he hasn’t finished,” You say, irate, and he’s annoyed to have been silenced but between him and Lahabrea they’ve gotten the better of you; your face is almost entirely red.

Well, he assumes so. The mask covers the upper half but there’s little reason to assume the red stops there.

“Most inefficient of him. Shall I assist?” Lahabrea offers, presumptuous beyond imagining, and Hades nearly chokes on your fingers.

That’s _enough;_ he makes a rising hum that can only be associated with indignance, tickling your fingers with the sound reverberating in his throat.

He’s won, and yet he hasn’t; you stare him down with the barely contained aggravation of someone whose revenge had gone too far and been foiled such that your original pound of flesh had not been received.

“Certainly,” You make a sound suspiciously close to a giggle _,_ and he chokes again, “Most esteemed Lahabrea. Your aid would be much appreciated.”

No. No, no.

Absolutely no. He finally pulls on your hand, yanking it out of his mouth, and it occurs to him however red your face may be, his must be as well.

“Assist, how?!” He barks, barely asking, shooting daggers at Lahabrea in the corner of his eye that have no effect on the man whatsoever.

You meet his outrage without a hint of shame, holding up your palms beside your head. “I have two hands.”

“No!” Is Lahabrea _laughing_ in the doorway?

Hythlodaeus, and you, and now _Lahabrea_ of all people – just how much torment will he be expected to endure, until you are satisfied?

Why, why, why him?

The angel of truth admits to himself, much, much later, that he’d loved those days, he’d loved every moment of it, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Don't tell me you thought Lahabrea was some stuffy old arrogant orator. I mean, he totally was, but have you heard his laugh in the Praetorium? His whole Evil Rant? He's a little shit like the rest of the Ascians, no question about it. It might even be an Amaurotian thing, this snarky teasing attitude. Hythlodaeus, Lahabrea, WoL, even Emet gets in on it...
> 
> No this isn’t the kinky shit I’m still pretty sure you guys aren’t going to like the kinky shit, it’s VERY much to my own personal tastes and I find most of the emetfuckers… to be frank, you’re a bunch of bottoms. No shame in that, unless you get off on it, but alas, it won't show up in this fic.


	20. New I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Crack… porn… stuff… it’s pretty raunchy and not at all my usual flair. WoL is a huge troll with a personality and sense of humor that might not resonate with ya’ll. Emet-Selch decides to spice up his sex life with a female WoL by giving himself a vagina and having WoL peg him, so he can experience how it is for WoL when they have, ya know, regular old dick-in-vagina sex. 
> 
> It’s VERY much humor-filled. Might be weird for any trans readers. Emet-Selch is weird about bodies. Flesh vessels are very meh.

Why, how, under what circumstances he brought it to the fore – Emet-Selch does not remember and does not care to.

All he can think is that your face looks so terribly unsettling, with those brows so high and that normal glint absent from them.

“This is sudden. Not that I’m averse,” Ah, yes, there it is, returned along with your eternally wicked grin, “In fact I would be pleased to. It’s only… I had thought _you_ would be averse. You don’t have to-”

He cuts you off immediately; whatever nonsense you meant to spout about him going along with these debauched acts for your sake, Emet-Selch would not hear it. ‘Twas all well and good to delude _himself,_ but you, he would not lie to.

Not that he would tell you everything anyways.

“You had said you wanted to… _bond,_ yes?”

The look you give him, one eyebrow terribly arched, reminds him of someone unbelievably obnoxious and impossible.

…Himself. It’s a face he would make, isn’t it?

“I do,” You lean in close, allowing him no room for retreat, sort of like how he might have done in those ages past had he not been outright terrified of you, “More than anything.”

And there it is again; that tone of yours that so completely and warmly _reassured_ him, more than it has any right to.

“Well?” It comes out sounding – not nervous, never nervous – _expectant._ “You want me to feel it as you do, _yes?_ ”

He’s obviously awaiting confirmation. As though he already knew he was right.

You realize what he –

“No!” You regret it as soon as you say it; it sounds far too harsh. The sentiment itself is very sweet, but the implication, “I mean. Don’t – you don’t have to _change your body_ just to do that! I don’t want you to do something like that just for – for some kink you want to try out with _me._ ”

Your protests are not unexpected, but they are annoying, still. Now you require reassurance, explanation, and you will spend more time talking instead of getting to what it is you mean to do tonight.

“This means far less to me than it does to you, my dear. I do confess I’ve a preferred appearance, inasmuch as my host bodies allow. But what shape this body takes means nothing to me, ultimately, and it is…”

“And what?” This is curious; Emet-Selch doesn’t tend to hesitate like this, especially when he already seems to have given this some consideration. “What else about your body?”

His cheeks, pale and shadowed as they are, normally so angular and sharp, almost nearly appear to be _dusted pink,_ “…I will confess to some minor _curiosity._ About how it is like, for you. When I enter you, when you climax, and so forth.”

He’s a bit off put to speak of it, but not quite for the reason you think.

When you were writhing, moaning beneath him… stretching out with hands and aether, greedy and grabby, clinging and holding dearly with all your impeccable might. How you felt when in those throes of ecstasy; now _there_ is a question worth asking. A question warranting a most _accurate_ answer.

It’s hard, resisting the temptation, the desire to just put you in that state again and enjoy your helpless lust before him. Enjoy how you unwound for him, unraveled, and even in your unwinding how you sought to pull him down with you all the same.

The thought is appealing, but ultimately, curiosity wins out. A new experience to share with you, one of pleasure and satisfaction for you both; what could possibly hold more promise?

“For your use, if it please you.” He gestures to a toy over on the table that hadn’t been there before.

You squint. It’s almost cute.

“Garlean design?”

“Naturally,” He purrs. You appear to be a bit bemused, though. Perhaps you had less experience with such things than he had anticipated.

“…You know that’s a bit… big… right?”

Not a matter of inexperience, then. Tilting his head to the side, he tries diligently to puzzle out your mixed expression, but settles on simply hearing what you have to say. It’s always a pleasure hearing you speak, after all.

“Bigger than mine?”

“Significantly,” You say, then pause, your expression absolutely _adorable,_ “Wait. How can you _not tell?_ ”

Now it’s his turn to look at you strangely. “How could I? Do you suspect I spend long hours staring at my cock in the mirror? Taking measurements?”

“That’s a good point actually,” You nod, almost to yourself, “How did you get my measurements?”

 _Unbelievable._ Squinting and crinkling his nose in a way that hopefully conveys his disdain, he responds, “Exactly what sort of person do you think I am? The strap is adjustable.”

“No, for my cock.”

The immortal Paragon is struck silent.

“What do you…” What are you talking about? He cannot help but glance futilely between your legs, as though he’d actually find anything when you had your clothes on, “You do not have a…”

The grin he receives in return is far too wide. You are taunting him, clearly. But about _this?_

“How do you know?”

“I have _seen_ yo-” No – no. To debate with someone so thoroughly determined to mock him is a fool’s errand. He silences himself mid-sentence and begins again. “Regardless, I am pleased to hear it appeals.”

The wickedness in your expression falters, “Size is all well and good to look at, but really, it’s _you_ I’m worried about. You _do_ know that it has to go-”

How. How has he gotten into this situation. Having the particularities of intercourse explained to him by a Sundered portion of your soul – he’d sooner _die._

“Yes, I’m well aware,” He snaps, making his way towards the bed, kicking off his boots as he goes, “Are we going to do this, or not?”

You follow him over, watching him lie down on it, impatiently, face up, reclining as though in leisure.

“Well,” You say, gesturing awkwardly towards him on the bed, hesitance born of the more… choreographed nature of the situation. Normally you just came onto him, took your fill, and you’d come to know his vessel well from that.

Emet-Selch cocks his head cutely for a moment, and then realizes what you mean. In a snap, his clothing is off, as thought it had never been, leaving him completely bare before you. All pale skin stretched over thin, lean muscle, on display for you to see.

“Get to it, already.” He wriggles beneath you, impatient. Demanding, no matter his position or the shape of his body.

“I can’t just _get to it,_ ” It’s surprising, how thoughtless he can be. “You’re not ready yet. It won’t go in well, if at all.”

“Go on!” Hilariously, he gestures to his new genitals, “I didn’t do _this_ to lay about and be touched everywhere _else._ ”

Emet-Selch is _exactly_ the sort you’d expect to enjoy lounging around and being touched. In fact, when you had sex normally, he quite liked to be touched. With aether, more than on his body, but you knew he wasn’t averse to either.

“ _You_ don’t just _go on_ when it’s _me._ ”

And it’s true – when he meant to enter you, he devoted plenty of time to foreplay, seemingly well aware of its importance.

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he gestures, bidding you come forward. “Then do as you please. Obviously you have my leave.”

Such a strange arrogance and submission; he offers up his body without lifting a finger, bidding you come forth and do as you please. Demanding you to, all while you held full reign. So you take your look, examine him.

“It’s just… it all looks the same, except that one part.”

He rolls his eyes, “Well, of course it does. How much else did you think I was going to change, just for this?”

“I’m not sure how much you’d need to? I know there’s more than just,” You look down again at the slit between his legs, hairless, pale skin covering over pink like petals – it figures he’d give himself something so… aesthetic. Really, it almost made _you_ feel bad. “Just this… part…”

“The vagina.” He says, voice dull and clinical. “Really, you _do_ have such a way with dirty talk. I am – what is the expression? _Creaming my panties._ ”

Howls of laughter reach up your throat, and you do quite an admirable job of strangling them into short, choked-off chuckles as they pass through your lips. Predictably, Emet-Selch sees the truth, smiling up at you with those tricky, brilliant gold eyes.

“Sorry, I’ll try to expand my vocabulary.” You say, heat flooding your cheeks; but it’s a warm heat, comfortable. There’s nothing wrong with him seeing this. “Do you prefer ‘cunt’ or ‘pussy’?”

His eyes narrow, “So crass you are. I am not some prostitute who has seduced his way into your bed; have some grace about it, would you?”

“ _Graceful_ dirty talk, he says.” Raising your brows at him, you don’t bother to hide your smile, “The pretty emperor wants pretty words while I fuck him, does he?”

“A bit better. Four out of ten, perhaps.”

The bastard! “You could stand to give me some pointers, you know!”

“And where would be the fun in that?” Wiggling his eyebrows at you – he’s completely irresistible, and you start to question your tastes until he speaks up again in that beautiful, angelic, playful voice. “That _is_ the point of this, yes? Enjoyment?”

“ _You’re_ one to talk!” You glare down at him, but lay your hands on his sides nonetheless, settling down on your knees just above him to get to work. “You wanted me to just – just _shove it in,_ without any foreplay!”

He only shrugs, “That _is_ the main event of it, yes? It pleases me just to have you in my presence; I care not for the particulars.”

That does annoy you, but much more does it stoke the flames of warmth in your chest. It’s relieving enough to know that he… got off… at least, in whatever way Ascians got off, just by being near you.

…Emet-Selch spent a rather large amount of time in your presence, actually.

“You know that’s not how it works.” He’s so skilled when it comes to getting _you_ off; didn’t he say he wanted that same experience? “Listen, don’t _you_ put some effort into getting _me_ ready? You do realize you need to be aroused, too? It’s not like being hard for a man, but the principle is still the same. You’re not going to enjoy it if you’re not… properly stimulated.”

“Well, then,” He says, impatience straining through every syllable, “What _are_ you waiting for? _Stimulate_ me.”

You look down at him, even as he looks up with those golden eyes, vivid like coins catching the light, low and curving in his irises with a gleam.

So you stimulate him.

His body, or most of it, you know well enough; spreading your hands over familiar territory, palms wide across skin you’d mapped ages ago, following the valleys and ridges of his torso with ease. It gets you very little in the ways of response, merely a low, soft sigh here or there, so barely audible you’re uncertain you ever heard them at all.

“I’m going to need more feedback here,” You say, settling yourself to sit just over his hips; very intentionally keeping the toy well away from any contact, “What touches do you like? Which ones do you like less?”

He hums, and you almost take it for refusal, but the next time you bring your hands to his sides he shifts minutely, drawing your hands lower, below his ribs, to soft, unbounded flesh. You press there, soft at first, and then when he presses himself back into your touch you take the cue to press harder, caressing.

The glorious sensation of him _leaning in_ to you, that supple flesh and smooth, alabaster skin being brought flush against your hands, leads you easily to where to go next.

So you follow his lead, letting him guide you to where he likes to be touched, subtle and passive, but present if you paid close enough attention.

It’s always a pleasure, to explore his body. Rarely do you receive any reward – Emet-Selch is long past the pleasures of the flesh, he’s said before, far removed from the feeling of here and now and it showed – but it’s there if you look for it, if you’re careful enough.

You can see his pupils dilate just in the slightest, his breath still for the slightest moment, his eyes narrow, his brows, so carefully sculpted, draw together and up in a way unlike most of his other expressions.

So you take your time, exploring him, not just to feel him with your hands but to let him be felt in return, to work muscle and sinew lax and unresisting, pulling stress from him with every squeeze, touching his aether as much as you touched flesh, for in that plane do his burdens weigh on him the greatest.

You could do it forever and never grow tired of it; his skin under your own. Soft and smooth, pale and perfect and _made_ to be touched, to be felt. The feel of _him,_ warm and welcoming beneath you, open and bare to your perusal, shed of masks and robes and whatever other shell he’s clad himself in.

But it’s not to be; soon, his breaths grow fast, his hands reach up to roam your body in turn. Careless, impatient fingers that know _exactly_ where to touch on you, distracting, feeling what he want to feel, instead of feeling how you touched him.

Now, now that you’ve had your fill and mapped his flesh, worked his body to relaxation and arousal, let him know you meant to be felt; now is about time you could get to his newer features.

It’s still strange, seeing between his legs; you half wonder what women he’d known, to make something like that.

…Many, probably. You push the thought from your mind and scoot downwards, to give his new sex the whole of your attention.

With deliberate caution and slowness you part the lips of his sex, uncaring of how he squirms beneath you –

That’s a lie. You _love_ how he squirms beneath you. There’s wetness leaking from him, piercing yellow eyes glaring down at you while his face was drawn tight between annoyance and feigned indifference. But the tilt of his brows, just a bit less arched than normal, betrays them as taut with consternation.

His lips, dark and purple, are in a thin line on his face, still beautiful and angelic even in his irate anticipation. Pale enough so as to be radiant, features cut and clean, striking eyes framed by dark, violet hair that you knew to be even softer than it looks.

Oh _how_ you want to touch.

And it’s right there, this new part of him – this feeling you and he have yet to explore together.

You lick your lips, and you watch him _watch,_ as your eyes trail down to his sex and you position yourself, your hands, around it.

“What are you _waiting_ for?” The low drawl betrays none of his arousal, but the proof of it is right there, leaking from his slit.

You meet his eyes with a smile and no answer; it would annoy him more that way.

Oh, how much _fun_ it would be, making him fall apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of 2, because the chapter was getting pretty long and my mantra for this whole fic was "Hey, don't kill yourself, just post nice, easy to write chapters, don't push yourself for word counts". Sorry not sorry to be a cockblock I guess? We're definitely getting into some of the weird kinks, but I have plenty of fluff and regular sweetness on the way. We'll see if I ever write the more tame, vanilla smut, again XD


	21. New II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part to of the last chapter, the same forewarnings apply.

Your fingertip meets his folds, slick and wet and tender. Without bothering to part them, you swirl your finger around, letting your nail just brush over the flesh there; not clawing, just the blunt of it smooth against his folds. Aimless circles and swirls you draw, just with a pointed finger, the rest of your hand hovering over his sex in a lewd display he cannot tear his eyes from.

“Will _you,_ ” His legs at your sides shift and clench, his lips unfurling to fullness so he can snarl, “ _Get on with it,_ already?”

“No,” You say casually.

Still, you add another finger, parting his lips to spread him wide open for you, to look upon his entrance, already wet and leaking for you. You take your time tracing over it, fingertips dancing over and through delicate folds, teasing and grazing; a light, playful stimulation. For small bursts of pleasure, so as not to drown out what is to come.

His own hands, large, pale things, whip down to clutch at your arms, white with the force of his grip. Wrapped entirely around your wrist, long and slender fingers digging into bone.

“Hero, I grow _bored_ of your taunting.”

 _Bored_ is not the word you’d use to describe his reaction to this new arousal, and the special attention you pay to it. Though he’s regulating his breaths, it’s plain that they’ve increased in speed, his lips wedged apart slightly to accommodate each low pant. That face of beauty you had compared to an angel – pale cheeks just barely flushed, but even the faintest pink is easily visible on his skin.

It’s a beautiful sight that would have been much more moving if it hadn’t been _unbelievably_ arousing. You feel heat pool in your lower half just at the sight of it, a desperate lust pulling taught against his stubborn self-control to show on his face. Without thinking, your hands flex, a flitter over his sex that has him moan again, long and low.

Emet-Selch realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. That’s just how he smiles at you, isn’t it? Wicked and low, a smug satisfaction tugging at the curve of your delectable lips.

He wants out. He wants to touch your lips to his own and then wipe that look straight off your face, make those lips part wide as you wail out for him.

He wants out – but –

The feeling of your finger plunging, _inside him_ –

It’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. Because, of course, he hasn’t; and it’s _you,_ those fingers, those clever hands of yours that had always reached to grasp and feel at him so greedily, so needy, wanting and clinging and utterly perfect against him. And now it’s _inside_ him, slipping easily against smooth walls inside he’s never had before.

You must feel it, it must be so _easy,_ moving in there, in him. His whole lower half shudders, tensing and releasing in an utterly novel sensation that drew the whole of his awareness to his new sex, to your fingers inside it.

It’s such a tight but perfect fit, and undoubtedly your finger is so completely engulfed you can feel every ilm of him clenching around you.

And _does he_ ever clench; the foreign, warm invader gentle in its intrusion. Sparking awareness, a tightness in his lower half that is impossible to ignore, where there had been none, stoking flames that had only been embers.

Pumping in and out of him, in steady, fluid motions, working his entrance open for you, plaint. When you add another finger he almost does not notice, only feels his legs tremble that small bit more, control cracking and crumbling, slipping through his fingers in a feeling as smooth and glorious as your fingers slipping from him.

The third, he does notice, a stretch wide and delicious that just edges the line between sweet tension and painful tear, fingers testing and teasing and ever mindful of his reaction. Slowly you work him to accept it, carefully, nudging his entrance with your third finger over and over, grazing over the rim with your other fingers inside.

Just teasing at it, pressing it, stopping as you hear his low exhalations sharpen into something that might have been a whine, underneath it all.

When you enter him with three fingers it _burns,_ but it burns sweet, energetic; an invigorating stretch that strained his muscles gloriously, tensing and relaxing and joyous relief, even as blood flowed to his lower half, the pulse growing more noticeable with every second.

A slow, experimental push, sliding in cautiously as his fingertips leave bruises from their clutch over your arms, almost twisting as he pulls you further into him.

“Get,” He says, gasping and cursing himself for it, “Get _on with it._ ”

All he receives is a _tsk,_ a smooth dismissal of his impatience as you drive your fingers into him in a short, controlled movement; concentrating on giving just as much as he’s able to take.

Emet-Selch _says_ many things, and his words aren’t lies, but they don’t tell the whole story.

The sweat on his brow, the narrowing of his eyes, the way his chest heaves as his pants come faster, faster, as you grow more confident in your thrusts, clawing into him deeper. His walls clenching around you, as though not to let you go, the easy slickness of his walls on you as you drag your fingertips across him.

He suffers a few more moments of this before his moans come rise, loud enough to knock him from his stupor and send his legs closing in along your sides.

“ _Now,”_ A hiss comes, and you try not to meet his gaze, where you know you’ll be met with sharp gold gleaming daggers at you.

There’s no doubt that if you laughed at him now, even just because you were _so happy_ to see more sides of him – he would never let go of it. The petty, frustrating man. One day you’d laugh together in bed, _with_ one another and not _at_ each other. One day you’d know all of him, and he wouldn’t hesitate to let you see, he wouldn’t hold back.

For now, what you have is this duplicitous wretch of a man who won’t even admit how much he wants you, despite how his body screams it out. No matter than his aether, his very soul, has reached for you since the beginning, has wound around you and made you at home in his heart for countless nights in his arms.

For now, you have him beneath you, panting and demanding; it’s close enough to make you smile.

It’s time, you think; he’s about as ready as he’ll get. You slip on the toy, adjusting the strap that came with a harness to secure it to you tightly. It’s actually rather comfortable – doubtless the product of his consideration – and it seems likely to stay on through what you mean to use it for.

Lining yourself up carefully – his fingers dance over your hips, impatient and trailing; you can _feel_ his urge to just slip them between, part your thighs and have at you in his lust.

He looks up at you with a light in his eyes unlike anything else, fervor and passion radiating from him like the heat of his body. You can feel his heart beating erratically as you lean forward to slot your hips into position, your hands resting on either side of his chest, but not after trailing over it.

Slowly, you plunge it into him, mindful of the press of the head of it on his entrance. You adjust it, watching his chest tremble in restraint of a noise you’d do _anything_ to hear him make, as your fingers flick about the delicate flesh around his entrance and slip the toy carefully past it.

Once you’re satisfied there will be no dragging or painful pinching, his fingers are digging hard into your hips, pressing bruises and straining tight to pull you towards him. You oblige with care, sliding in, and in, watching the annoyance on his face _collapse_ under the pressure from within, watching the heat in his eyes flood out the sharpness.

His lips part against his will, wide and open in a groan he clearly cannot suppress, because it’s a bit higher than you’d expect to hear from him.

Emet-Selch feels it, _inside_ him. It _stretches_ and _stretches_ him, almost splitting apart, but the pain is a glorious thing, a filling thing, he can feel his own pulse in his walls against the toy even as you drove it deeper inside him. Again, and again, that maddening pulse, clear and dominating his senses, commanding his attention.

All he can _feel,_ and so much to feel, laden with this new girth and intrusion, is that cock you press into his entrance, an excruciating burst of sensation flitting through him as you hit the end, making him clench around you all the more. The feeling of the resistance, the soft, silicone having a light give to it, and at the same time returning his pressure, spurs him to clench, and withdraw at the resistance all over again.

And then you pull out, leaving an emptiness like no other; noticeable only because of the fullness that had preceded it. The gape accentuated by how he finds himself clenching around nothing, wanting something, any sensation, nearly _crying out –_

You swing your hips forward, pounding into him so hard that you’re almost a bit concerned, but Emet-Selch rises up to meet each and every press, long, low pants eventually giving way to desperate moans.

He takes it well, he does. He takes and he takes, and he _takes_ until he is _filled,_ full, this pulsing within him wholly unlike any arousal he’d felt before.

The movement of the cock _inside_ his body, dragging along internal walls so tight against it that he encompassed it entirely. Every ilm of it pressing against him in delicious sensation as you moved; he understood immediately the purpose of those ridged toys he’d seen earlier – _oh,_ what one of those could do –

One thrust hits a particular spot inside him, the cock all smooth and yielding and firm all at once. A cry escapes his lips without his permission, and then another; he looks up to find his legs straining upwards so that they locked your hips between them, flexing to pull you into him even more.

It’s debauched, filthy, horrifying _eager_ of him, worse still when he realizes just how much _you_ have done this to _him._ How you’d bent your knees, even as he does now, coaxing him with the whole of your body, for just another ilm just a _bit_ harder –

Your hands splayed over his own hips, pressing tight into bone as he tries to buck up into you.

Each and every one of your thrusts thrumming throughout the whole of his being, the force you applied sending waves through the whole of him.

He feels it – heat from within, stoked by the friction of your every thrust, the nerves of his sex alight with liquid heat as surely as the arousal dripping off him. Higher and higher and it’s not enough, even when he digs his heels harder into the softness of your back, even when he bids you thrust _harder, **harder –**_

It's good, _so_ good. Delicious and electric within him, pleasure building along with heat, a steady pool of desire in his gut. Constricting around the toy only for it to drag out _again,_ a painful loss of fullness that leaves a gaping loss in his aching entrance, throbbing with want and need.

You feed the toy back into him, listening as he moans long with it, chords of satisfaction drowned out by the high pitch of desperate _need,_ his want all-consuming as it tears from his throat. As you pump in and out, he _breaks,_ audibly, whines flitting through his dark, perfect lips between pants and groans.

He clutches at it with his walls so hard you can feel it, yourself; his legs now wrapped around your hips, pulling you in. Toned chest heaving with effort, sweat sheening over that regal bearing and dampening hair normally so well composed, spread about his face in ruffled debauchery.

It’s a beautiful picture, all of him spread out like that for you, taking this toy you shoved into him with every swing of your hips, taking it so well and so eagerly – so _desperately._ The barest hint of yellow visible to you past his face scrunched – the sight of it sends your heart racing, that he could look so endearing – in consternation and exertion.

“ _More,”_ The demand claws its way from his throat, raw and wanting, so much he would wince at the sound of it were he not entirely consumed by this lust.

So much is there to feel, your hands the only steadying factor in his body wracked with tremors of ecstasy that stop just short of any peak, but flood him with feeling nonetheless. The world outside his arousal fades and fades until it is reduced to just his entrance, just that toy driving into him and dragging over his walls, so hot and so fast and so _good_ –

And yet all this doesn’t sate him, he only wants more and more.

His eyes meet your own and he can’t, doesn’t wish to imagine the look on his face.

All that matters is that you look utterly _enraptured._ You gaze upon him as though there’s nothing in the world you would rather look at, as though you’re drinking in his form even as you feed that toy into his body, and it feels so, _so, **so good.**_

You reach down and touch at him, pawing at his sex, and he moves to shake you off –

But you _touch_ him, you touch some piece of him, fingertip burrowing through his folds and towards a nub of flesh that sends lightning pouring through him, shooting straight up from his sex, hot and burning with sensation that now erupts into pleasure. He feels himself tighten around you, once, and again, uncontrollable spasms wracking his entrance and sending waves throughout his being.

All the while your finger keeps its hold on that bundle of nerves, a constant contact, like a live wire against him charged with pleasure. Something unseemly, almost like a wail, fills the room at the peak of it, heat finally bursting into flames, alive and electric and radiating through him, awash with pleasure.

Words fall from his lips that he barely understands his saying, even with the Echo, slurred enough that if Emet-Selch just _pretends,_ as best he can, then he might be able to imagine they’re not words of endearments, sweet nothings, pleading and begging for you to –

As the high rides out, the climax rippling through him in its last waves, he manages to shut his mouth, release his legs.

The exhaustion is at once too much – they fall apart, far more lewdly than he would have liked, a downright embarrassing _squelch_ coming from him as you pull the toy out for the last time, leaving him aching and empty – but wholly satisfied. There’s no energy left to move, to shift or have at you – and yet a warm contentment washes over him, heady and near euphoric.

It's only warmer when you lean in to lay beside him, arranging your legs to twine with his own.

“Did you enjoy it?” Your voice speaks only too well that you know the answer already; that you ask for only your own amusement.

A sigh rises in his chest, brushing against your own, and that is all the answer you receive.

Limbs languid and aching, body devoid of any energy whatsoever; he would that you’d let him sleep here and now, vainly hoping that you might let it slide.

“Well? _Did you?”_

There’s a real question in your voice, a note of unexpected insecurity – and it occurs to him, just how immature this is.

All you want to know is whether he enjoyed what the two of you have shared. You want him to admit it, to tell you that your efforts to please him were not wasted, to hear from his lips that you had done him well –

A smile plays across him, light, in his tiredness. You already know the answer to that question. You’d seen it, undoubtedly, _heard it,_ he near winces to remember, and even felt it with your hands on him the whole time. And yet you still wait on his word, hanging on for his response. Looking up at him with eyes clear of guilt or malice, wanting only to give him the world and see him happy.

It is hard to drag away from that line of thought, harder still when all he can barely move his body, distract himself, but he does it still, tilting his face just slightly. “Perhaps.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You are so stubborn it near brings a tear to his eye – a bit dramatic, mayhap, but he can be forgiven a little flair, surely, in the light of such circumstances.

“I would be hard-pressed,” He murmurs, letting himself drift away in your arms, cradled in your body and aether and shared warmth, “Not to enjoy _anything_ we did together, my dear.”

There’s a pause, and before he falls asleep completely, he hears, “…Anything?”

Anything, Emet-Selch thinks to himself as he falls asleep.

Anything, and everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're getting into some of the really kinky shit now. I've got some significantly more twisted stuff coming up, along with a few nicer, less-smutty works. And of course, the occasional sad/angst piece. There might not be fluff for quite a while, unless inspiration strikes me, etc. 
> 
> (A note though, none of the future stuff I plan to write is non-con, or even dub-con. Emet and WoL are consenting adults in a healthy, and mostly open relationship. They communicate about almost everything except some choice particulars that don't have anything to do with personal/sexual boundaries. This is mostly just kinks that a bit more out there than the normal fare, and of course there's one chapter in particular I'm thinking of that's pretty extreme. There will be warnings before all of them so make sure you check the note beforehand if you're a bit squeamish about certain things!)


	22. Shameful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a shameful thing.
> 
> The others would be disgusted. 
> 
> (As though they would not have jumped at the chance, had they the ability to make such an accurate recreation.)

He’s terribly fond of sleep, he tells them. A wonderful way to pass the time.

Lahabrea scoffs disdainfully, as though he’s riding off his hard work – as though Emet-Selch hasn’t been forced to clean up several of the man’s failed experiments already. Elidibus only radiates silent disapproval, ever controlled in expression and conversation.

What they think of him is of little consequence. As long as he might retire even a moment sooner –

Even a second more in your arms, is well worth it.

It’s a shameful thing, he knows. He’s sure Elidibus would be terribly concerned. Lahabrea might have even been outraged. The others – they’re not themselves, he doesn’t even want to call them by their titles – but he knows what they would think. What the people they were would think.

Such a thing as this would have been _unthinkable_ in Amaurot. But he’s not in Amaurot, none of them are, Amaurot is _gone_ and they’re all surrounded by pitiful, fragmented creatures anyways, so who is there to judge, really?

Zodiark is silent. He is always silent. Ever since that fateful day, He has been silent, and His words are the only ones that matter. 

He returns to his home that is not a home; the shroud of darkness carved from the void, from His Dark, the place to which His servants could withdraw, even in their blackest night. He’s filled it with familiar things, of course, like he knows they all have despite having never seen where any of the others went to rest and never wanting to.

The layout is the same. The window in the same place, the walls and various rooms, the door is in the right place and opens in the same direction, with the same soundless ease unheard of in modern times. The window even shows the same view of the city, as though he really is back in the Capitol building, up high.

Familiar furniture, far too large, decorations as best as he could recollect, the likes of which were only permitted inside of personal quarters. Hades grows as he enters, shedding the title of Emet-Selch, the responsibilities, the weariness; assuming his proper size, his true form. Who he was meant to be.

Who he was, all those years back then. His mask his plain and white, robes black and unadorned, like they were when he met you. You did not live here then, but what is such passé notion as realism in the face of so dear a fantasy – an illusion? Realism, the truth, it’s all left behind with the title.

Here, he is at home. He can pretend he is home.

Hades takes a deep breath; it even smells like home. Warm and smooth and faintly reminiscent of vanilla, a scent barely noticeable but pleasing nonetheless.

After so long away, the scent is downright nostalgic. Tremors race through him, heartbeat of aether quickening, claws widening as hands flex, digging into palms. His eyes trail around the room, gathering details and shapes and colors – comparing it to his memory, every moment, his scrutiny on his Creations – Re-Creations, really – severe enough that even Hythlodaeus would have been proud.

They’re all there, the things he remembered placing on those shelves. Collecting over the years.

A silly creation you’d made, one day, warped and bent into a most inappropriate rendition of his visage, unmasked, as he walked in at precisely the wrong moment. Just thinking back on it draws faded feelings, annoyance and frustrating; but it’s all warm, comfortable, bathed in the soft light of memory and the knowledge of your reconciliation.

He'd taken the image of himself in surprisingly good stride – far too good; angry at him for taking amusement at your failure, you’d plotted revenge. You’d summarily proceeded to sabotage his efforts to smooth things over with Lahabrea, petty creature –

Though whether the petty creature is you, or him, is questionable. You’ll never know, now; how much that had bothered him. _Lahabrea_ could take his calculations and thrust them in unmentionable places, of course, but for a while he had not been sure if you were jealous.

And if your jealousy was of Lahabrea, or of _him._ He’d never told you, never brought up your close collaboration with him, how you seemed to ever admire him and were indeed the only soul he permitted to talk back to him during debate. He dares say he’s seen the speaker _smile_ at you, once or twice.

Lahabrea never seemed to begrudge him your companionship, but then, grudging was his default state when interacting with colleagues. Especially ones who did not live up to his exacting standards.

Then again, Lahabrea had never seen that little failed creation of yours, so painfully accurate as a portrait of his face that you’d kept it despite his teasing, put it in a place of honor in your home. Where anyone could walk in and see it.

Smiling fondly at the recollection – pointedly passing over the memory of him hiding your creation matrix the day you wished to show your new Creation to Igeyorhm, his little revenge; how you had come crying so _adorably_ to him afterwards, and later he’d confessed, condemning himself to bear whatever retribution you saw fit to levy upon him – those are the days he lives for.

He lives to see again.

Another device on the wall, a pretty thing, one meant to awaken him to go to his morning meetings and the like. It had been decommissioned, so to speak, and banished from your bedroom, after not one but _several_ incidents that had resulted in… less than dignified presentations of himself towards the rest of the Convocation at meetings.

It became apparent to him, later, that you’d designed it especially not to wake him up until the last possible moment, so you could keep him with you just a few moments longer.

How his heart does _ache,_ at it all.

There’s more, countless more. Your mask is in its place, and he places his beside it, an old and comforting ritual. After your nomination to the Convocation you’d kept the old mask out of nostalgia, and this was a place much suited for such things.

He remembers, day in and day out, how you had lectured him to leave it in the same place when he returned home, so he could find it on his way out. Creating a new one every time he went out, only to be discarded somewhere to clutter your shared quarters – a wasteful habit of which you did not approve.

As though you did not have a few dirty little habits of your own. He would have called you a hypocrite, but he was soft on you, so soft. Lahabrea would have done it.

Lahabrea had never known what your body felt like, naked, between sheets, what your _soul_ felt like, bared in its entirety along with the vast, glorious expanse of flesh that made your form. He had never laid hands upon you, touched his aether to yours, felt you hum in contentment to the very depths of your soul, just to have him in your presence.

Yes, the speaker never had managed to get anyone to love him like that. Oh, the looks he shares with Igeyorhm, the burning undertone of failures seeking redemption – maybe he’ll find some pity, a kindred spirit. But whatever he came back to when it was his turn to rest, it is not this. It is not anything like this.

None of the others had something like this – like _you._

A place filled with memory. With warmth, days of friendship and companionship, and the deepest and truest of loves.

And with –

“Hades?”

It’s a voice with a low, warbling echo, of his native speech. A language lost to countless eons, unheard even among the Unsundered.

He turns to you with a smile.

“My dear. Did you miss me?”

Your arms open wide to receive him, even as you return his smile in that way he’d always loved, lips quirked with mischief and yet bounded by love, affection painted plain on your face which you bared to him and him alone.

“Always,” The affirmation is unneeded. Would have been unneeded.

Tremors wrack his body for a heartbeat and no longer as he wraps his arms around the illusion of you. Feels your shade pull his body close just as tightly. An imaginary tug – really, one born of his own aether – tugs at his soul, as though to embrace him even more.

It is a filthy, shameful thing.

Hades holds you, undresses you, whispers praises and proclamations of love into your skin.

“For so long – I have waited,” Between kisses, on the neck, biting a collarbone and sucking to leave marks on skin that healed instantly, suffused with his power as his soul clung to it, steeped into it, throwing itself into this intimacy of old so long forgotten, “I have wanted nothing more – than – to see you – _be with you._ ”

It is not a lie. He would never lie to you.

Without any active thinking on his part your shade cannot respond in kind, only repeating words from his memories, little echoes; true in flavor and color and tone, but faded and old.

Simple movements do it all, add color to the illusion, flair and believability and a dash of excitement.

A hand over his shoulder, palm spread over his skin as though it could actually feel anything. Leaning in while he delved between the legs as though it served anything other than to arouse him, to see your body bare, to see himself touching it. Breaths that come faster, in tiny pants, from a form that requires neither air nor sustenance, sustained solely by his aether.

It is not you. It is never you. This is like – it is _masturbation,_ at best, this act of touching and making pretend love to a body that only resembled your own, no matter how perfect.

It’s _disgusting,_ that he can touch and love a shade like this, to paw at and worship this Creation of his – that’s really what it is. A Creation in your image, a _doll._ Incapable of reciprocation, not possessed of any soul at all, let alone yours, no matter how it looked like you.

A disgusting, warped distortion of true intimacy. A violation of your bond with him, your trust in him, everything you had shared with him as the one whose soul you made your own, and offered of yourself in return.

So easily does the voice of Dark within him whisper; Had you not made the first betrayal? The least you could do is lend him the use of your image, of your shared memories. Those memories _were_ his to cherish, to treasure; belonging as much to him as to you, you’d made them _together…_

You had made this love together. The act of it, the bond. It is his, too.

_It is his, too._

Looking up at the ceiling, feeling the arms wrapped around him, warm and bent just the way from his memories, Hades speaks.

“How have you been?” It slips from his mouth for not discernible reason.

A question with no answer, no meaningful answer; ‘you’ do not exist outside his visits, outside his time in here. Comforting, warm sheets, the feel of this embrace that so closely resembled how once you held him; he’s been caught up in the heat of the moment, in the pretend role for this personal fantasy.

You cannot tell him about the trivialities of your day; of your interactions with others, your research and your work, or any other nuance. This ‘you’ has no experiences, has no soul, only an abundance of aether and memory poured into its being.

And it breaks his heart open, still, tears love and longing from his chest as easily as the sight of that city from all those years ago; that smile that he would do anything to see again. Your smile.

It is not you, it will never be you. It’s only an illusion.

But it is a perfect illusion, a perfect recreation. This is what your smile looked like.

Hades’s soul weeps, it does, even as the face that looks like yours crumples with concern that cuts him to the quick, even as he feels his own aether in your shade reach out, faint and fleeting, to brush at him, soothe him.

It’s his own aether, an extension of his own body; the hands on the shade of you might as well be his own, for they move exactly as he wills it.

But they do still go through the motions. Perfectly reminiscent, a striking recreation.

Hades smiles at the not-you, through his tears, and feels relieved to see this shade, this pitiful, ephemeral facsimile of his own creation, smile back.

With you at his side, he falls to sleep.

It is not you. It can never be you. But it moves in your ways, has your hands and body, your _smile,_ your voice, it speaks to him the same as you and acts like he remembers you –

It is not you, but he wants it to be, wants to pretend.

And that is more than enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey bro I heard you were expecting a bunch of porn
> 
> So I wrote you some angst


	23. Apology III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING:** This chapter contains small but noticeable amounts of violence between partners. Everything that goes on is safe, sane, and consensual; each party is a completely willing participant.

It’s been too long. Far too long.

He’s been putting it off for a while. This intimacy. He’s acknowledged his faults, even apologized for them, indirectly, but you’re not one to be satisfied by such paltry things as words and you both know it. He must do far more to earn forgiveness and he knows it and you know it.

Upon becoming Emet-Selch his behavior has been unacceptable. Bad habits chaining into one another, new duties and old reservations against asking for help, expressing himself, all piling up to produce the pitiful excuse of a partner he had been in the past few months.

It really does sting. That Lahabrea knows more, _cares_ more about your Creations than he has, in recent times.

The day has come; there can be no more waiting. To have made you wait even this long – to have made you tolerate this treatment for so long – is unseemly in the extreme.

Still he waits just a little bit longer.

He waits until the dead of night, when the lights are off and most people have turned in, to drag himself to your chambers, silently, slinking along as though the shame of it all physically clung to him, weighted him down.

It may as well be. Hades knows all too well how intimate the connection between mind and body goes. How one might influence the other. He is made of aether, but aether suffuses his body, making it just as much magic as his own power and soul. From flesh arose the soul, and in turn his aether extended his senses. His being.

He's not the only one with such senses, not remotely. Hades enters to find you waiting, patiently, on the bed, completely robed, your mask carefully secured on your face and the hood of your robes drawn up.

But then again, you had been expecting him.

When he comes you receive him as you would another stranger, though he had set his mask aside when he entered your dwelling. Your _shared_ dwelling.

One could be forgiven not for realizing that was so, in recent times; so oft has he been away.

All the nights you’d been made to sleep alone are painfully clear in his mind. Every time he’d come home, after some languid walk or nap about the city outskirts, his own office in the Capitol building, secluded locations where he knew you would not find him. Walking into home and bed to find you already turned in.

Crawling in beside you to be lulled to rest by your heartbeat, by your breath, fearful of the consequences of reaching out, unwilling to bear your waking scrutiny. So he woke up early and left you there, in bed, without a word.

Like a ghost in his own home. A _disgrace._

A late night and then another, a brushed dismissal when you attempted to speak to him, more and more avoidance for any further confrontation. Blaming his newfound position would be pointless; this distance is of his own making, his own painful _awkwardness_ and failure to properly acknowledge your needs.

A subtle thing, distance. Insidious and difficult to notice, but perhaps the most painful of all ways to separate oneself from one’s partner. There is no excuse – he will not search for one, will not justify this behavior. It is time to change. He wants to change.

“Why are you standing?”

He knows you would ask – you would be like this.

It is why he came tonight. After your outburst in the office, your little snap at him in front of Lahabrea, how you had not been satisfied by aught he had done, and it showed clear in your demeanor.

When you became _truly_ upset, you stopped caring about what other people thought of you. It would take a fool not to realize – but then, it would have taken a fool to allow your relationship to get to this point at all. When one caught a star in their hands, one does not _let it go._ One certainly does not draw away –

“I asked you a question, Hades.”

He falls, at once, to his knees.

There is so much to say – so many explanations, _excuses,_ running through his mind; pointless things, all of them. _I am standing because I walked,_ he would have said, had he not known exactly what such cheek would have brought him.

Hades is a prideful man. An intelligent, analytical man. Pride necessitated acknowledgement and ownership of one’s mistakes, and under no analysis of the situation is he _not_ at fault for your distress.

“Come over.” Indifferently, the demand washes over him, and he does obey.

There is no anger, no impatience, nothing in your voice that reveals your feelings; but as your partner he can sense it all the same.

It is almost laughable as a façade, with the eyes that he has. Your color bleeds into the air around you, vivid to signify visceral emotion, bright with hurt that is painful to look upon. It condenses around you, contained. It should not be. Bonded partners shared everything; emotions and desires, fears and ambitions.

All you looked forward to, all you hoped to accomplish, even the unremarkable minutiae of your life – all of it is his to hear, and share in turn, bear and face alongside you in support and appreciation.

And what does he know about your hopes and dreams? Lahabrea and Igeyorhm have followed your work more than he. His own newfound colleges, beset with the same responsibilities and station, can find time to speak with you and share in your Creations.

Lahabrea had made you smile, made you joke with him. _Lahabrea._ And what could he get out of you? You left the exchange feeling no less upset than you were when it began. He had failed even to placate you, and now…

Looking up at you, even though he shouldn’t, he feels his eyes begin to water.

It is of his own doing. You feel neglected, unwanted, dismissed. Of course you do. Being avoided constantly will do that to a person. Being avoided constantly by someone so close to you – who shared your living space, no less – and knowing that others in similar positions of business were perfectly able and willing to make time for you –

The thought stings him. How must it feel for _you?_ Sleeping alone, or feeling like it, every night. Waking up to an empty bed. Searching for the one you love only to find emptiness everywhere, finding him only when _Hythlodaeus_ dragged him to your office.

You must have felt he cared more for Hythlodaeus, than for you.

It would have been easy to conclude he cared more about _anything_ than about you. Rationally the answer is of course that Hythlodaeus simply had the vision to hunt him down, and that he was accustomed to dealing with him withdrawing into himself. Since meeting you, it had rarely been necessary.

 _Necessary._ As though this neglect could have any reasonable excuse; even needing time to himself, he could have at least told you, and not avoided you and shied away from open, honest discussion. Instead he kept his feelings to himself, and because he is your _partner,_ the one you are meant to share them with – so did you.

You were hurt.

You are hurting, and it’s because of him.

Hades crawls. And as he does he weeps silent tears down his cheeks, lets his feelings be known out in the open, for your judgement and inspection. You’ve a right to his sorrow, to his remorse, as the wronged party. Never mind that it might buy him a modicum of mercy; he’s no doubt that this, too, is expected.

As he moves, he feels it pour fourth once more, coalescing within at the strength of his emotion – grief, most of all. Doing it once in a day was tiring enough, but it became easier after that once initial time.

Hiding it is not an option; you and you alone have the right to gaze upon him as you please, in whatever form he takes. It is as much your form as it is his.

All of him is yours.

Slowly he drags himself over, aether dripping from his form, coating the floor like liquid and flowing up and over the walls, the furnishings and fixtures, the windows, everything but the bed and where you stood. It leaks and leaks from him until his form is reduced to your own size, the excess put on display all around you, spread out for you to witness and judge as you would.

Even without the sight it is visible, his soul which keens and moans as it coats your surroundings, encompassing the room entirely but forbidden any contact with you. A self-imposed denial, for he knew your will and would serve it with every fiber of his being.

On his hands and knees, robe long since shed in the deluge of his essence being set free, he stares down at the floor, covered only in his borrowed aether. Not raising his eyes to you until you speak.

And speak you do, to the bare, naked form of the Paragon before you, head bowed low in obeisance. As it should be.

“Hades,” You sigh, reaching out to thread your fingers in his hair.

It’s soft, and white, and you could almost imagine you held a cloud in your hands, but the strands pull taut when you brush through them, a pleasant, smooth thread.

“Whatever am I to do with you?” You muse, brushing your fingers through his hair, petting him softly. Savoring the feel of it. “This isn’t acceptable. You know that.”

He does. You have not actually asked him a question directly, so he has not your permission to speak.

“What do you think, Hades?” His name; a cue that you expect an answer. “What’s a fair price, for the disrespect you’ve shown to me? And to yourself – the office of Emet-Selch, as well? What do you think I should do to you?”

“Pain,” He suggests, knowing you did not gravitate towards that, not when your physical forms healed so easily. A lesson needed to _take,_ so the pain would have to be memorable, in itself. “Humiliation. Denial.”

Thoughts arise in his mind, of which one would be best, which the worst – they’re dismissed immediately. The decision is yours.

“Humiliation, I think, would last the longest.”

Your supposition is correct. It would.

To say so would be speaking out of turn. But there is no reason to, because you know it already.

“On your back.”

At last; a command. Your will guides with absolutism, with gentleness that could be taken for care had he not known better.

He hears you stand more than sees, though his head is level with your chest, large as he is. It does not stop you from kicking him down, onto his back, crushing him and commanding his aether away as easily as you might your own. Not fast enough, it seems. You had chided him before for his laziness, his propensity for rest.

You are not in a forgiving mood, it seems.

Good.

“What a _magnificent_ creature you are,” You drone, bearing down on this form of amalgamated aether, the power of the Underworld drawn up into being, with a single foot. It shouldn’t work, your foot, bare and unprotected against his aether, but it does; his soul is cowed with ease, bending to your every whim, without a thought.

“How _terrible_ and _great._ ”

Each of your words drags more and more arousal to the surface, pooling like his aether around him, dripping from his form like the irony from your voice. The reaction is instinctive, you draw it easily as Creation, manipulating aether with speech alone, sending his gut twisting and writing in excitement with every sentence.

You press down further and he suppresses a groan.

He bends to you, as always. When you back away he reaches out, unthinkingly grasping at your feet with one of his many great and clawed hands –

And your foot falls down again, this time kicking at him, violent and wicked, lashing out. It’s a sharp pain, this one, in his side; as relieving as it is piercing and precise.

“Most _esteemed_ Emet-Selch of the Convocation of Fourteen,” The seething annoyance in your tone, low and searing as the pressure you press on his core, speaks yet greater volumes of your frustration, “What would they say, seeing you reduced to such a state? Laid back, prone, helpless at my feet?”

Laugh, most likely. Several of them are close to you and aware of his own position in your life, and his behavior as of late has almost certainly convinced them of his unworthiness. They respect you and therefore do not trespass upon your personal matters – but they do not respect him, even as Emet-Selch.

And for that they cannot be blamed. He has failed you.

“What would Hythlodaeus say?”

 _That_ makes him shiver. He can imagine it in far more detail, and it’s a far more visceral, terrible reaction. One that draws terror from his gut, tugging deep and low from the most primal of places.

His friend, looking down on him. Everyone, looking down on him, seeing him like this – prostrated and naked beneath you.

Blood pools in his lower half, churning with the rush of his heart racing. To be spoken down to, mocked, _humiliated,_ by those who work alongside him, his closest friend –

Naught could surpass such a rush, save from the very partner to his soul.

“You _disgust_ me.”

It cuts him, worse than any knife, hits harder than any blow. You mean it, too, the intensity in the air is as burning as your aether, distant and contained, but only just. Radiant in its fury. Its frustration.

“You’ve _failed_ me, Hades. The simplest of tasks! Just _being_ with me, _talking_ to me and you’ve failed to do even that!”

There’s real rage behind it. It is impossible to resent it, not as justified as it is; not with the notes of betrayal in your voice. The low key of abandonment that strikes on certain words, how your soul leaks and leaks and _bleeds_ out into the surroundings as you fail to contain it, tendrils of aether reaching so close he could almost taste it.

How can he resent this rage, brought on by hurt? He hurt you. _He hurt you._

You pull at his hair, pretty, long; white like snow and soft like a cloud in your hands, and you

**_yank_ **

It, irresistible strength and power reminding him just why he prostrated himself before you, just why you stood above and he below. Where he belongs. Throwing him down and to the side again as you look at his face; it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

Your beautiful, cruel, _indifferent_ Hades; your Hades who spent more time napping in some faraway corner of the city than speaking to you, who pretended to be busy and buried himself in one task or another, who would sooner tell Hythlodaeus than mention his nomination to you.

Put thusly, he doesn’t sound like he’s _yours_ at all. But you’re his, you’re all his, even when he’s gone you can’t help but wonder… why he didn’t want to be with you… why he didn’t want to see you…

What you did to drive him away…

Dark aether claws at your feet, completely without permission, creeping up to your ankles until you shake it off, pulling your foot away, looking down at him. 

You look down, again, at him; laid out bare for you, the whole of him on display. That beautiful face, so perfectly crafted it may as well have been porcelain, pale in the dim light. Hair spilling out like moonlight off him, like a wide halo of softest silk. Eyes of heavy, gleaming gold. That lean, slender body, his pale form almost waifish in comparison to the aether leaking off him.

Soul aching with a grief like poison, low tones of sorrow echoing out for you. Your Hades, always such a compassionate creature. A distant man who saw others, felt as they did, _pitied_ them.

Heat rises in your chest and you grasp it strongly. Even anger is better than the ache of feeling unloved. And how easy it is to slip into it, with such an easy, willing - eager, even - target laid down before you.

He feels something brush just past his thighs, your toes just gently trailing until the pads of your foot met his cock, a bump that stirs him and lights him up all at once. Lust having already gathered, your prompting is more than enough to make it bloom.

Painfully his erection makes itself known to him, in excruciating detail; every ilm of you that met with his body seemingly flaming. Desperately sensitive nerves cry out for touch, and it’s only the bottom of your foot, smooth, unbroken callouses, that drag over it.

More than enough, all too much; a cry leaves his lips without any thought on his part. His legs jump but he’s enough control not to move himself, to stay down like you wanted, even when he has to focus not to instinctively buck up into you.

“You’re getting off? Just from this?” Your incredulity is only slightly ruined by your breathy tone, the barest balm of your personal satisfaction to this shame that stung so sweet. “Disgusting.”

Sharply does his next breath come, heavy and swift with arousal.

You are right. It is. It _is._

Filthy, disgusting; he’s failed you and even at the barest touch he comes alive for you, so wretched a creature. Each thought sends his heart pounding, his aether burning, more and more aroused until he can tell his cock is weeping against you. At his sides, his hands tremble, clutching at nothingness –

To just reach up, jump at you. _Hold you,_ finally, in his arms, have you with him, next to him, warm and bright and perfect as you always were, the feel of your skin against him, the euphoric familiarity of aether joining with his own and souls intertwining –

 _Filthy_ reality interrupts him when you kick at his cock, pain bright over his senses, the heat in his arousal nearly blinding. 

“I’m sick of watching you squirm like some desperate animal,” Impatience coats each and every word, “Come.”

And he does, on command. Like a trained animal –

 _Your_ trained animal. Hot and thrilling, a brilliant moment of pleasure bursting through him as he came, heat racing over him in waves, lasting only a moment before endorphins rush through him, heady and lightening. Making a mess of himself, and your foot, like the disgusting creature he was; the thought trills through him, even now, sending shudders through his body.

Unworthy of sharing your body with, let along your soul. Vehemently, the thought grows; you deserve better. Sweet, sorrowful creature, lashing out in your pain because you had been so carelessly maimed; you should be comforted, embraced. Worshiped and adored.

Whispers of affection and praise wait in his mind, on his lips, but he does not speak, cannot speak. Not without permission.

“What are you waiting for?” You’ve yanked him up into a nearly sitting position, back on his haunches while his head hang forward.

Before his face, your foot, clear and delicate skin soiled by his release, still dripping with it from your ankle to between your toes. “Clean it.”

You _cannot_ be serious.

“Clean _what?_ ” The incredulity is – this should _not_ come as a surprise, his mind immediately concludes, with your behavior earlier – plain in his voice, “ _With what?”_

That wicked look in your eyes that he looks upon as he speaks – without permission, you’ll make him pay for that later, undoubtedly – tells him very well how serious you are.

“Humiliation. This is your punishment. You’re not _supposed_ to like it. That would defeat the whole _point._ ”

That you do not bother to answer his questions is proof he already knows the answer. Pressing your toes closer to his face, towards his mouth. Looking _down_ at him, expectant, waiting for him with every confidence that he will obey your orders.

Lust pools and pools in his gut and with ease do his lips part to accept it.

Hades cannot say he _likes_ it, no matter how he feels himself grow more and more aroused by the second. You, looking down on him as he serves so diligently, paying tribute with lips and tongue, sucking and cleaning every last drop of himself that he had dirtied you with. Licking your feet like a dog.

Your faithful dog. To be worthy of even that – perhaps he may yet earn himself a measure of redemption.

Truth be told, you don’t particularly like it, either. The feeling of his tongue fitting between your toes, gliding over and between, slick and smooth as he sucks his release off your skin is… pleasant enough. Not arousing it itself, really, but that doesn’t matter, not compared to how it makes you feel to _watch him._

It’s beautiful, watching all that pride crumble, bit by painful bit, and build itself back up. You can see it in his face, if you look carefully enough. Brows drawn tight begin to loosen, his pupils dilate and then narrow in concentration, features slack with shock tighten in concentration as he devotes himself wholly to his task.

That’s the Hades you love, hidden deep past clever remarks and bored dismissals, past the veneer of pride and arrogance. A man with beautiful golden eyes that see the world in the most beautiful way, a man whose compassion allows him to reach out to those souls passed on and draw upon the echo of their strength. Hades, your Hades.

The man who gives all of himself, in all things he loves. And right now, it is you. Your will, your command. Even his pride is yours to do with as you will.

“Enough,” You say, and only at your word does he stop, drawing back.

A thin trail of saliva slips from your toes to his mouth as he parts slowly enough for it not to break. He looks up at you, face flushed. Normally faint lips purpled and swollen, perfectly formed all the same, deliciously compelling as you look on at him from above, seeing his eyes flit to stare at you from beneath white lashes.

You take a step back, and then another, until you are just sitting on the bed. Unceremoniously, you part your legs, just barely; no more than would be comfortable in your position. Your robe falls apart as though cut vertically, but only from the waist down. Lifting it up with more care than you’d shown him at any point and setting the fabric aside, you look back to him.

An expectant look is all it takes for him to follow.

“My turn.”

There’s no more cheek this time; gladly does Hades descend upon you, to fulfill your decree. Lips meeting your folds in a sweet kiss; he moans just to taste you, vibrations that stir the heat in your lower half all the more. It’s not at all unexpected when you hook your legs over his shoulders; to make it easier, he puts his arms on the bed beside you, moving closer to make it more comfortable for you.

His tongue knows just where to go, just what to lave over and drag across, which place to press. Soon you’re leaking all over, arousal struck alight into the pulsing of your sex as he pours his mouth over it, sucking and licking in every way he knows you like.

Once you are sufficiently aroused, it is an easy task to redirect his efforts to your core, swiping his tongue over your entrance, bobbing in and out to get you clenching around him. Dragging tongue across walls, tugging wet muscle along smooth flesh pulsing with lust. Once he’s established a rhythm, it’s time to set to work against your clit, keeping your entrance satisfied with his tongue.

Drawing lips to purse over it, a gentle but present stimulation at first, then adjusting as you respond, tightening your legs around him. Little gasps and moans finally erupt from you, easily indicating when he should press harder, suck more, what place to brush with his tongue and press with his lips.

Diligently, he drives you to completion, face buried deep between your legs, mouth open wide on your sex, entirely debauched. Lust swirls over him, seemingly building with your own journey to your peak, and he has to fight not to grab you, hold onto you; feel your body shake with the strength of your climax.

The hands in his hair hold him tight, he knows your hands must be white with this grip and he’s spared that one iota of pride – the only bit that really mattered. That he could still move you, still affect you.

He’s getting hard once again, more and more with every hard-won noise you see fit to grant him. Pulling away to stare up at you, at your face; the glow of your orgasm fresh on your features, cheeks hot with desire. Eyes hazed with lust stare back down at him, unflinching, at the tongue he drags over his lips in a long, deliberate motion, as if to savor.

And _is it ever_ worth savoring. That he could bring you such pleasure, have such an effect on you; what more arousing prospect could there be? Lips parted as though in passionate expectation – eyes reverent and adoring as though in prayer –

“You spoke out of turn.” Ah, there it is. The price for his earlier cheek.

You shove him by the shoulders, sending his back to the floor again where the coating of his own aether grows cold against him, attuned to your will.

The heel of your foot presses down on his cock, hard and harder by the second.

It _hurts_ and it hurts _so good,_ to have you stepping on him, dominating him, humiliating him so thoroughly. There is no letting up, no hesitation or faintness; through clenched eyes he sees you staring down on him like some sort of indifferent god delivering righteous punishment.

Exhilaration rushes through him anew, electric and writhing, to every corner of his being. To have your foot on his cock bearing down _hard,_ vicious and unforgiving. It’s intense, visceral, a pain bright and sharp upon him, a swell that grows to throb in agonizing ecstasy as you apply more and more pressure.

He doesn’t deserve mercy, doesn’t deserve forgiveness; even if you granted them, he would not be able to accept.

He hasn’t earned it yet. To serve, to obey, to devote himself to his love; only once his fealty is proven and his sincerity affirmed, will all be right with the world once again.

“Are you going to come again? From _this?”_ You grind your heel into him, and it’s even worse, glorious _sensation,_ the feel of you _touching him,_ with any part of yourself –

He has not been addressed directly, but the opportunity presents itself.

“Am I going to…?” He asks, voice roughened with arousal, low just the way you like it, “Come again?”

It is a terrible joke. Even by Hythlodaeus’s generous standards, it is not worth the punishment his cheek would earn him, not in the least.

But your choked off laugh is worth the world to him, he would not trade that sound for anything.

“You are such a fool.” You say, but it is with fondness, bending down.

The pressure on his groin disappears as you move to sit beside him; he makes no move to stand, instead relishing the feeling of you sitting beside him. His aether has painted to room, and it lingers still, all around, concentrated enough not to have dissipated. Longing prompts it to crawl up, dark whisps of aether curling over your legs like smoke, faint but warm, leaking his feelings into you.

“More often in recent times,” He admits easily; it flows out of him with your lips on his forehead, brushing over him, almost indifferent in gentleness.

As though you had ever entertained indifference towards him. That; the ultimate shame, you have not rendered. Most likely, you simply couldn’t, and the thought makes his heart ache all the more.

There’s a pause, a true silence that strikes a fear in him unlike any other. Each heartbeat between your words seems to stretch for an eternity.

“…It really hurt, Hades.”

Of course it had. Disrespect, negligence, coldness; they describe well the behaviors, but not nearly the experience which you had endured as a result of his failure.

“I am sorry.”

“It really _really_ hurt.” There’s no anger in your voice anymore. You sound like a child with a scraped knee, warbling with the weight of pain as yet unknown to you.

Reaching out almost on instinct, his soul rushes towards yours, warming and soothing to the touch. For greater effect, his affection is verbalized and soon trembles off, cooing soft, warm words to you as your voice breaks into something a little like a sob.

Each tear he kisses from your cheek, gentle as a breeze, leaning up even when he had to support himself with hand and aether. Running a hand along your face, cupping it, pressing kiss after kiss along with all things he knows are comforting to you.

The feel of his hair in your hands, the sound of his voice in your ears, his lips ghosting over your skin, soft, if swollen, from recent activity. Licking away the tear tracks, rubbing his cheek to your own. Telling you of how loved you were, how adored and precious and beautiful – how brilliant and clever and admired –

How impossible it would be, not to want you; anyone with eyes that could see would know your worth. Praise after praise, drawn from memories old and new – he’d _not_ forgotten about you, never forgotten a single detail – and things you’d done, said to him, you had half forgotten ever happening.

Running his fingers through your hair, a faint encouragement for you to return it; how you loved his hair, he knew. How you love how it feels against your hands, soft and smooth and falling through your fingers with a perfect and delicate grace.

His other hand works over your shoulder, pressing into muscle and sinew, working sweet relief to tired flesh. The hand in your hair quickly follows, trailing over your robes and simply caressing, kneading, warm and pleasant. He would make you feel better. The whole point of this is to make you feel better.

As you deserved; every movement he makes in consideration to easing your anguish. That punishment had been his comfort, a catharsis of humiliation from the one he’d wronged. A most suitable for these feelings of guilt, the desire to prove himself – reaffirm his devotion.

He could not accept your forgiveness, freely given, and so you do not offer it. That must be _earned,_ by acting as a worthy lover and partner. Worthy of being yours, and of being the one to whom you entrusted your own soul in return.

He wanted you to trust him. In anything. Count on him, rely upon him, know that he would do anything, _anything_ it took, if it was for you.

The tears do dry, eventually.

“You hurt my feelings,” You say again, in a voice that breaks his heart.

“I love you.”

Malice flashes in your soul, painful to feel, this close, especially as the target.

“Your _love_ does not help me. You still left me alone, forgot about me, neglected our relationship. I am still hurt.” He winces. “You _loved_ me the whole time you did that.”

And yet accepting this malice is nothing, not if it meant bringing you the slightest bit of relief.

“I am sorry.”

“I do not want your apology.”

“I know.” What could be gained, between ones who knew one another’s hearts, with such a trifling exchange of words? Action must be taken. “Will you tell me about your new Creation?”

You don’t say anything. He continues. “The one that Lahabrea and Igeyorhm know about. And. Will you tell me how – how your day has been? How your days _have_ been, since I was appointed.”

Of course they had been difficult due to his behavior, soured by the absence of a presence so normally constant, but you are your own person and your life had continued despite his neglectfulness. One such as you does not collapse when companionship is withdrawn, even unexpectedly. All while he had been festering in his own habituality distance, you had continued to live your life independently. Without him.

“I’ll tell you what I feel like telling you. I am in charge, not you.”

“Yes, you are. I want you to be.” You would not be in control unless that were the case. You would never have taken control without his permission.

You are partners, after all. Equals. A bonded pair of individuals sharing all things… although there are yet repatriations to be made, on that front.

The best thing would to have never brought you in the first place. The next best thing would be to start attending what had been neglected _right now._

Sitting back, you look at him, still not pleased but delightfully _relieved,_ having expressed yourself to him, shared yourself with him, let him feel your pain and known in return the depths of his remorse. That is all that could be asked of you; even between partners, forgiveness and understanding must come willingly, or not at all.

And it’s in the aether, loosened and flowing more freely from you now, melting freely over his own in wordless acceptance. This is not finished, not yet, not all set to rights – but it is begun. His aether spread over the surroundings has dissipated, filling the room palpable warmth, devotion.

The feel of his heartache – for you, for his damnable attitude – must have brought you significant satisfaction, because he sees you lean back, settling him with an easy gaze.

With that look in your eyes, it is clear. You know and you understand, and you’re ready to forgive; with sufficient effort. Effort he is more than willing to put forth, questions he _wants_ to ask, time he’s _longed_ to spend but has simply avoided until now out of his own detestable awkwardness and shame.

A sigh escapes him, and a shiver, the reminder that his body is bared to cool air unwelcome even in the room’s relative warmth.

The movement catches your attention – it could hardly do anything else, every move of his has always captivated you – but he is thankfully attentive, still, hands warm on your sides. Aether humming against you, his soul trilling at your touch even as his flesh shudders under your gaze.

“Don’t you want to get off?” He’s hard, you can tell. So much that bringing him release would be painfully easy.

“I want to be a good partner to you.” He says.

With that, he shifts, mood changing; the room warming considerably around your, heat seeping in as the last of his aether spends itself.

“Of course,” Your Hades is not cowed, not entirely. Lips lifting up in that charming, mischievous smirk that you love so well and _he knows it,_ “I am a most diligent listener, as you are well aware. I do not require the use of my mouth to hear about all I have failed to ask you so recently.”

Even with his hair mussed and aether exhausted, limbs trembling and fatigued, he manages to shift his weight, lounging in a manner that seems almost debonair. There’s nothing more arousing to you than his interest, the way his eyes are trained on you entirely, the way he hangs on your every word, regardless of whether or not you engaged in one sexual act or another.

Within a moment or two, the aforementioned project came to mind, and a flood of others. Your newest Creation was nearing completion – as Hades should well know, having licked it off your fingers – and you’d consulted with several members of Anyder about a different request, a complex one submitted by some researchers who required new equipment to monitor the levels of aether in various environments.

Something, you think, looking into those golden eyes rich with promise and adulation, that he may well find interesting. Those eyes of his would certainly help. Looking at you like that, leaning forward as the corner of his mouth drifts up – he’s earned a _tiny_ bit of self-satisfaction, maybe.

He can keep it, if he pleases you. His gaze does not leave your eyes, not for one single moment, his soul ever bearing towards you, offering all of his efforts, all that he is.

Your lips twitch in response even as you feel wetness seeping from your sex; his fervor, it seems, is infectious. Theses springing to mind, stories of little, insignificant things that had happened to you on this day or another. So much to share, now that the floodgates have been opened, now that his eyes are on you and only you.

That _face_ you so adore smiling back at you with such clear affection –

At last, you have his _full_ attention.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so THAT was 6200 words of... some stuff i didn't expect myself ever to write. and some other stuff i kinda figured i might write. 
> 
> I'll stress that Hades's attitude lately was sort of retconned a bit for the effect of this chapter. You can pretend this is a standalone, sort of, if you want. The relationship depicted here is completely healthy and respectful - this sort of sexual play serves as something of an emotional release for them both, and of course going forward they intend to talk (it's how this chapter ends!) and communicate better, work out a better way to confront the feelings they've had recently, work out why they got to this point, etc. 
> 
> For the most part, though, they have begun the reconciliation process and Hades is ready and eager to catch up on all the bonding, updates, interactions and quality time he's been absent for. No worries, happy ending~
> 
> Anyways this chapter is the, uh, kinkiest to day and definitely has some uh. different themes in it. I know compared to A LOT of the stuff on Ao3, even within FFXIV, it ain't much at all. But it definitely is a bit out there compared to most of my other stuff, I feel, so... now I'm not the Cool Elegant Author who writes the Classy Smut, I'm out here writing kinky shit with the rest of them. Which is cool, I _enjoy_ the kinky stuff, but... you guys still think i'm cool, right?? you don't think i'm weird? or that i'm into feet?? i am NOT into feet i swear it's just that i needed something to humiliate emet with!! uh. anyways ty for reading, hope it was worth the wait, it sure was a long one XD


	24. What would it have taken?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What _would_ it have taken? Could anything at all have ever been enough?
> 
> Two souls at the end of the world.

“Do you honestly imagine this will work?”

It would require a miracle – and even then, probably not.

“There are no alternatives,” Hades – no, _Emet-Selch,_ says instead. “We act, or we watch all of civilization die for our negligence. There is no time to investigate a better solution.”

It’s a harsh reality, but the luxury of debating the reality and morals of the situation was lost long ago. So much else was lost that it barely feels like anything, anymore.

They do what they must, all of them.

You had been half joking when you remarked upon the Concept as Lahabrea proposed it to you, personally, in the desperate haste when you were all scrambling individually for ideas. Each of you gone your separate ways into your unique specializations to come up with a possible solution to bring to the others.

A “Will” for the star itself – a fanciful notion, certainly. If it could be matched in sentiment as a realized Creation – then, yes, certainly, the Star might be able to save itself.

But past that, the Concept was useless. How does one _create_ a “will”? How can this “will” be tied to the existence of the world itself, such as how a soul is tied to one’s own mind and physiology; and how might this “will” arise as its own independent notion, outside of the wills which created it?

To say nothing of the physical contradictions. What composed a “will”? What substance was it made of, what structure did those substances take together, and how was it this substance affected physical change on the world?

Aether, aether, aether – if Lahabrea had said that word one more time you might truly have throttled him.

For _hours_ upon _hours_ had you argued with the stubborn fool about the Concept. And only a man such as the speaker, learned and brilliant in his own way, of scathing rhetoric and vast experience, could squirm and twist and alter the idea to avoid blow after blow of scathing dismissal.

And eventually… eventually. As long hours of night gave way to morning daybreak, as you found yourself near nodding off and Lahabrea, even in all his fervent passion, stumbled into the chair beside you… you realized this might just be the one solution mad and grand and impossible enough to pull the world from the brink of destruction.

It's a testament to the situation - to the utter lack of _any_ alternatives - that his plan is accepted almost immediately.

Despite the fact that the very first topic of discussion was where to get the energy to perform such a feat. The dread silence that rang through the hall, the stillness and creeping horror as the terrible, terrible price dawned upon them.

Instantly it struck you wrongly. If it had been a sure thing – then you could ask your people to sacrifice themselves that the rest may live. It would be sad to ask, sad to _have to ask,_ but in the face of this Doom it would be right to go and ask it of them.

But you didn’t know. And _they_ didn’t know.

And they would ask half of Amaurot to offer up their lives.

What’s more – all too soon it became clear that none of them were willing to sacrifice themselves. They would see this to the end. No one else could be trusted – not with the summoning, and not with the reins of civilization. The Convocation would act unilaterally to secure the fate of the world, demand half of their people to offer up their lives…

It made you sick. _Sick._

To have been a part of its conception, to have argued and debated and eventually theorized with Lahabrea until something presentable had emerged from the process. You leave the Convocation, you leave your _friends,_ colleagues, your closest companions and your love –

Tears unshed hung heavy in your eyes. Love, love – the love of your people, the love of life, the love of _your_ life. All that love isn’t enough to make them see past this, make them _think_ about what they are doing, think past their own lives and beliefs and see that this solution was meant for the _world,_ not for themselves, not for the Convocation, not even for Amaurot.

For the future. For tomorrow.

You leave, and you intend to leave, into that wasteland outside of the city, in what you know to be a dead end where all you can do is wander and wonder and helplessly observe the dying world. There’s no way to find out what ails the star so, not for certain; otherwise you would have done it.

Your bid is not the responsible thing to do, not the wise thing to do, not even the _right_ thing to do.

But you cannot stay. You cannot stay and condone them. Take part in their grandiose notions of self-importance.

And yet here you stand – Emet-Selch has followed you, out of the Capitol, into the streets. To the edge of the city, now deserted. The ocean is not nearly so blue with the skies so red.

“Stop. You cannot leave.” You cannot stay.

When you continue, a hand reaches out, grasping at your wrist. Yanking it away, you spare him a glare beneath a hastily Created white mask.

Why does he think he has the right to touch you, now?

“Stop!” He cries out as you step forward, but he knows better than to reach out again. “Please.”

You stop. Emet-Selch does not beg.

Hades does. But he is so rarely Hades, anymore, between meetings and theorizing, and the reality that as the one most attuned to the Underworld, it will be his duty to channel the souls… being _offered,_ into the summoning spell.

He is Hades, your sweet, beloved Hades, whose heart bleeds for the suffering around him, for the mournful souls he must watch plucked from their lives and flickering desperately away as they fade into the lifestream beyond.

One's heart can only take so much pain. So your precious Hades did occlude himself, and take that mask of Emet-Selch unto his heart. If you had eyes like Hythlodaeus and him, you’re sure you would have seen his soul shift in color.

“It’s wrong. _You_ are wrong. All of you.”

You don’t see him, turned away as you are. Don’t see the look on his face. There wouldn’t be a point to it, in any case, not while he had that mask on.

“Of us all, you are by far the most determined. The most powerful.”

“You don’t need me.”

It hurts to say, when it shouldn’t. When it shouldn’t mean _him,_ and it shouldn’t mean _you,_ it should mean the Convocation, and your skills. You are a talented individual, but not one with whom the Creation could be worked without. Even Lahabrea or Elidibus could be lost and the plan could be fulfilled.

Or rather, attempted.

“You don’t know that. This Creation is unlike anything that has ever been conceived before. A _will_ for the star. Your will is greater than any of ours, even Lahabrea, even me. And besides him, you are the one who understands the theory best.”

It’s all true, and none of it matters.

“I would sooner train another, and be among those sacrificed.”

He can’t think you’re running away. To agree to be sacrificed – not that any of them would allow it – would be more hypocrisy.

And yet you would be saved all the same. If it worked.

It’s sickening.

“Do not mistake me. It is not because we want to live.”

“You just don’t trust anyone else to be as _wise_ and _powerful_ as you. All Fourteen of us, and our best idea was to sacrifice half our people, and you think that means we deserve to be saved.”

If you turn you know you’ll see those fine lips pursed into a line, tight with the worry as it has been so often these days.

“Deserve…?” His tone is low and broken. There’s no fight left in him, not after all. “We are all doing our best, you know. Do you think – ”

Like glass cracking on pavement, his voice scrapes over you. Turning on your heel, you see him, see the one tear low on his jaw that he hadn’t been able, hadn’t bothered to wipe away.

“Do you think… that _I_ do not deserve to be saved?”

Now it’s you who wants to cry; you take a step back, as if struck, and he stands there and stares at you with those eyes that can see the very color of your soul.

Because to take this failure onto yourself, to speak of your shame to not have a better solution – that’s to cast shame on your colleagues, as well. On him. To blame them all for this failure; and indeed, this solution belongs to the Convocation as a whole, but…

But you and they are not equal, not really. In your heart of hearts, you are an arrogant creature; your standards for them are not the same as for yourself. It is acceptable for them to fail, for even the best of them are only human.

And among them, Hades, _your_ Hades, who has always believed in you and held your words in the highest esteem, he wants to know if you think he doesn’t deserve to be saved. As though he’s ever failed in his life, as though he’s done anything but bring you happiness and joy.

He had loved and enjoyed your Creations as though they were his own, had fostered your creativity and spirit with his joy as well as with encouragement, with good-natured debate and warm consultations, and on occasion, with soothing reassurance to ease your disappointment.

He deserves to be saved. You would do _anything_ to save him. Even if –

“No,” You say, and move to turn back, but he closes distance quickly, wrapping his arms around you before you can leave.

You could leave, if you wanted. Be gone in an instant, if that was your will.

“Then you think that _you_ do not deserve to be saved?” Hades asks, in a mournful voice that tugs at your heartstrings.

When you nod your head, feeling his cheek press warm into yours, his body embracing you and enveloping you in his warmth entirely, you realize you’re crying.

Further does he lean his cheek into yours, and you let your head tilt to the side, enough that his lips press to the side of your face, kissing away the tears. Trailing softly up to your mask, bumping against it with his own. His arms rub circles over your shoulders, your back, pressing and pulling you forward even as his chest bore into yours.

You don’t know what to say. There’s nothing to say. You’ve failed, and you don’t deserve to be saved, but the Convocation will go forward with the plan anyways and you’ve already made it clear –

“Please,” Hades begs; it’s not clear to whom he speaks. His body tenses against yours.

Would he go with you, if you left now? The thought sends ice chilling down your veins.

If Hades left with you…

The ability to channel a massive quantity of souls, guide them, and manipulate them into raw aether – only one among the Fourteen had such a talent. Even if Hythlodaeus were to step up, no one has the skill like Hades does. No one can do what your Hades can do.

You hear it; in his breaths, in his arms around you, tightening, in his _soul._ Every piece of his being screams it out:

**_Where you go, I will follow._ **

To the ends of the earth – _during_ the End – he would follow you, even then. He won’t let go, no matter what.

**_Please._ **

And without him, the plan will fail.

And if the plan fails.

**_Please._ **

Fourteen summon Zodiark forth into this world. The Convocation, undivided.

And thus is Amaurot’s Doom halted. The will of the world made into being, as one supreme and all-powerful entity.

In order to restore the world, however, warp reality _back_ instead of simply commanding it to return to its place, Zodiark requires more souls. The Convocation, again in need of an immediate solution lest even more lives be lost before the sacrifice could be made, requested volunteers once more.

And thus is the world restored. The land flourishes, the life, the plants and animals and newborn souls of a lifestream glutted.

And then, they pondered what to do.

It is only a natural thing, to succumb – to the pull of desire, the lure of such a power as His. Since He was made to solve all the Convocation’s problems, to _will_ away the unpleasant reality and bring forth a new one – it’s only natural to want to use that power again.

And again.

And again, and again.

More and more the questions rise, the suggestions; one after another, ideas upon ideas about what Zodiark may do – tempting, _so tempting,_ all of them – if only just a little more is offered –

Where does it end? Where _will_ it end? Certainly, to resurrect those lost is a worthy cause. The responsible thing to do; when they had sacrificed themselves because of your failure to find a solution, it was only fitting to reward them with the same salvation they had granted so selflessly upon others.

But how many lost could be recovered before the Convocation decided it is wrong for _others_ to be dead? For anyone, ever, to have died at all? For how many cycles would they drain this star of its life to restore what had been lost?

Zodiark has already made it quite clear that none of you will be permitted to die. He is eternal and He would have His servants so, too.

…How many more servants did He really need?

If He brought those souls back – surely, it would be equivalent to the great act of Creation which made Him, which bound your souls to Him.

Would He… be _more_ grateful… to those souls that were sacrificed for Him, than for the souls which wove Him into being? Those good and noble volunteers who offered up their very beings, whose souls had become the fuel for His very existence…

Would He love them like He loved you?

Would _Hades –_

It cannot be allowed. Not until it is certain what will come of it – and that the Convocation is not recklessly commanding this power to alter reality which they had Created into being out of desperation. That they would not continue to command Him, _use_ Him; for even the wisest and greatest among you, corruption from within would always be a threat.

Being eternal just meant all the more time for them to fail, for them to succumb to temptation and make requests of Him that He is unwilling to deny, great and magnanimous as He is.

They feel guilty, all of them. It’s heavy in the air, lingering over each and every one.

“We must not,” You repeat; it’s not the price of your cooperation, not a debt being called in. Your tone is of true moral judgement, of certainty.

After all that’s happened, none of them have resolve to match. Not even the speaker. It’s Hades who clings the most, clings the hardest, argues with you in the silence when all other voices dare not rise.

You think it’s because of Him. You think many things are because of Him –

After all, He’s saved you. Saved you all. Hades has always been able to see the Underworld, see the toll of life and death on this world; it makes sense that he is also so fiercely empathetic to the will of the star, the being forged to protect and restore the life living on it.

Hades is always crusading for Him, insisting He can solve everything, insisting this is His will. You would never accuse anyone of being ungrateful, or less than perfectly devoted – but Hades has always felt such things as devotion on another level entirely.

…Hades is _yours._ He is _yours._

You find you quite dislike this feeling. But the one to whom you had always gone, always relied upon and opened up to, shared yourself with; on this day, he is your opponent. Hades stands alone against you, demanding the return of things once lost. Demanding that this request be fulfilled.

He says it is His will.

And it is.

With a kind of certainty that is only born of being a god, He does repeat to you His assertion. That He might restore all that had been lost, if only He is supplied with enough aether.

Zodiark is your god, your lord and master, your savior –

And your _Creation._

A great Creation, the greatest that will ever be – but a new one, a young one. He doesn’t know what’s best for the star. He doesn’t know what’s best for Him.

He doesn’t know His own will. If He could see as you do, understand the flow of events and realize what would come of His actions – His will would be as yours.

You’re doing what’s best for Him, and everyone.

**_Did you think you could make my soul your color, and give nothing in return?_ **

It’s a curious feeling; the feeling of a god held at your mercy. The aether before you, the _will_ before you, squirms and writhes at your command, at the heavy tint of your shade cast upon Him, vibrant and irresistible. You know He can’t escape, can’t stop you, can’t do anything about it – you had Created Him, after all. You know everything about Him.

**_Do you think that I am yours? You are mine._ **

But it’s fascinating, all the same, like feeling the pull of the tides or a great, buffering wind. So large, so unseen and unknowable, a power so far beyond you and yet the tug of the reigns is ever-present in your hands. A force beyond any you could ever command, a connection to reality that you still only barely understood, so deeply woven into the fabric of this universe that His own will could shape the laws of nature themselves, had He only the power to exert Himself.

**_You are beautiful – you are great and glorious and magnificent, and you are my Creation, and you will always be a part of me. I bear your color and you will be mine._ **

All that power, all that depth of being and intimate connection to reality itself – and it’s all warping underneath your fingertips. Tensing and coiling at your command, His will roiling against your like a terrible storm which cannot touch you in the slightest. He cannot touch you. He is yours.

And like the turn of the constellations in the sky, like the rotating of this star, the rising and setting of the sun; He moves, _bends_ to your will.

Your will is His will; He is yours. You cannot and do not care to imagine if He had ever believed it differently.

Zodiark defers to your judgement, and with Him, Hades. Just as the Convocation does. He is your Creation, first and foremost; born of _your_ will for the star, born of your combined efforts with the others.

Born of your love for each other. Their love for you. None of them ever mention, but it’s ever-present. In the way you are His favored above all others, in the way that for each of your colleagues, you were the one they most adored. And that love did leak into your great Creation, He who had caught you all in His grasp even so.

If He wants the others, He can have them; you will grant your Creation that much. But Hades?

He can’t have Hades. Hades is _yours._

Once it’s all died down, once the others have left and Hades is there, waiting for you – he always _always_ waits for you, so devoted and so loving (it’s as though he’s afraid you’ll _leave_ even after everything) – you take him by the wrist and you _drag_ him home.

He's yours, all yours. You make your Hades cry and sob and beg for you, and then you take his pretty, pretty eyes, and you drag him before Him, make him look at his god who is _yours,_ too. Zodiark is yours and Hades is His so Hades is _yours,_ and no one else’s; your will and His are as one.

You will not permit your love’s attention to be divided.

He almost recoils, at first, to see how your color had stained his god; and then, like the sun setting in the west, he accepts, inevitably, irrevocably, obeisant to your/His will, the will that guided this star. And all at once it comes naturally, easily, like flowing water; Hades looks at you with those wide and beautiful eyes which saw so much, in awe and in reverence –

In _worship._

And with each passing moment does Hades lay his devotion at your feet, prayer and praise and worship all together. He bares himself at your will, summons forth all of himself to coat you in his aether, to paint you in his reverence and devotion; gold inlaid with midnight blue, a glorious constellation paying homage to your pure cerulean hue, just darkened at the edges from more than contact.

The name that is whispered is yours and not His, each intimate crevice of your mind, every crack where self-doubt and loathing lingered, pouring

**_I love you_ **

****

**_We shall never be parted_ **

****

**_You are beautiful_ **

All the words to take your breath away; ‘beautiful’ is not a word your people use lightly, all the implications of character and personality and achievement behind it, the word in all its abstract glory. But those eyes gleam at you, never straying for even a moment, as though you are all the stars in the sky, his entire world, his _god_ and lover both.

Hades presses kisses into your skin as easily as prayers, his soul hums with a hymn at contact with your own, he pours and pours and _pours_ of his being unto your own, relentless in desire and a familiar sinful wish to mark his god as his own. You accept it all, his hands, his adulation, his love, his heart into your hands as he seeps his soul into your own.

Cloying, cooing, warm and seeping into every part of you that is cold, every part of you which feels fear and anxiety and longing; Hades offers of himself, fills you with himself. Each thought you have, every time your mind moves towards sorrow or distress, he reins you back, his mind produces

**_I am happy, to be with you_ **

****

**_Everything is all right_ **

****

**_All will be well_ **

****

He tears you away from despair, your Hades, as he always has, covers up your doubts and speaks over them with reassurances until you believe him, truly. He tells you always, **_I am yours, I am yours,_** and pours all of himself into you, over you, soft and gentle and radiant in satisfaction.

Crooning at your touch, pulling you closer even as he thrusts at you, thrusts into you, desperate to embed his being into your own. To be a part of you, _with_ you, like He is.

You are flooded with him, with your love and his. Inside you, around you, all-encompassing. You are one, like you once were; the trials and Dooms forgotten, the god and His demands faded into muted darkness, surrounding you as the inky blackness of night did cloak the constellations of shining souls.

It is almost visible now; all he sees, you see. With his eyes you look, with your hands he reaches, but as one soul you do dwell, radiant and resplendent. Blue streaked with gold. And at last do you know the depth of his love, and does he know the depth of yours.

For a love such as this – for this one soul –

The star, its will –

No price could be too high.

**_You will never leave me, now._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some contention over what exactly the original plan was to get Zodiark to give back the people who’d been sacrificed to him – the original ENG makes it sound like the Ancients were innocuously trying to use the planet’s “life energy” – “We would nourish the world until it was bursting with life…” – like plants, animals, etc. and not humans at all. 
> 
> However; the same source comments that the plan for sacrificing to Zodiark “Has not changed”. Emet-Selch later outright admits the plan is to sacrifice the people living on the Source – WHOLE, UNSUNDERED people – to Zodiark in order to get their original sacrifices back.
> 
> It's very much a matter of how you want to view it. Personally, especially with my hcs for the WoL, and with the attitudes the Ascians have towards Zodiark, I’m inclined to say it’s the latter case… however, if you take a look at the people of Amaurot, their values, etc. it seems really impossible that they wouldn’t see the incongruity with raising their children in order to be sacrifices, etc.
> 
> There’s also the alternative belief some people seem to have that the various mortal races began to spring up BEFORE the Sundering. This is confirmed not to be the case; Yoshida confirmed in an interview that it’s not the WoL’s soul – EVERYONE’S souls are descended from those original Sundered Ancients.
> 
> Anyways, outside of all this lore dumping... I am actually very proud of this chapter!! I feel like I did a lot of things here that I don't normally do, and honestly I really like how it all came out! The vagueness, the abstraction, etc; I'm terribly pleased with myself over all of it. I hope you enjoyed; I even did a little bit of editing!


	25. Exhaustion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is hard, sometimes. It doesn't feel worth it.
> 
> But it is there, and the worth is there, too. 
> 
> For you, for him - no matter how much or how little you feel, this love is still here.

You went to deal with the Scions, to talk about the Lightwardens and how you might find the next one. He’s loath to be parted with you for any amount of time, but he also knows better to show himself, what with how they mistrusted him.

Damn them. Damn _you._ Letting them go on with their beliefs, knowing perfectly well the case is entirely the opposite.

Emet-Selch cannot quite bring himself to be angry about it. There is no way for you to bring up the subject that doesn’t end with at least a potential for violence.

“I’m tired,” You tell him, and Emet-Selch would have taken the opportunity to mock your cause, but you sound like you’re about to sob and it pulls at strings, stings in his chest.

Words still on his lips as he watches your downcast face.

“I’m so tired. I’ve been doing this for so long, for _so long,_ and my only reward is that I have to keep doing it.”

Stumbling, but not truly stumbling; controlled even in your fall, careful even in your moment of weakness, never letting go entirely. You step forwards, and step into him, letting your weight press against his chest as you laid your chin on his shoulder. He feels you lean, more and more, slowly until you are all but falling into him, and takes the cue to hold you in his arms.

“I’m just… I’m so tired. I just want to… not worry about it, not have to do everything…” Couldn’t you be selfish, too?

Thancred, Y’shtola, Urianger, Alphinaud and Alisaie; all the others had their faults and failings, but you, only _you_ have to be perfect at all times, you must not fail, must not falter. An unwavering font of hope and support for all others around you.

You cannot even _tell_ them of your tiredness. Cannot even begin to speak of it; it is your place to encourage and reassure them. The world can’t stand for you to leave it. Can’t stand unless you hold it up all by yourself. All the time. It’s _exhausting._

Emet-Selch knows exhaustion well.

He sleeps and sleeps and sleeps away, and yet it never leaves him, not really.

“What do you want?” With ease does the warm inquiry slip out, an undeniable tug in his chest driving his thoughts to softer places, to you. Wrapping aether about you so that you are embraced, surrounded entirely.

“I want… I…”

Tired arms somehow find their way around him, but your hold is entirely without strength. All that power you have, all that _glorious_ strength, and no will to exert it. They lay limply on his shoulders, just as you are draped over his front, nearly lifeless. Putty in his arms.

What you wish to say, you cannot. Could never. Oh, how tight the binds are – of faith and prayer, of conviction and devotion. The future of a world and all its people, all their hopes and dreams perpetually laid upon your back.

A burden so heavy that even its relief would weigh upon you. Such a loss leaves one who’s learned to live with the weight bereft, unaccustomed – unfamiliar with themselves and their movements. Even under something so crushing, which must eventually be relieved lest it kill you and be lost anyways, you continue.

Of course you would. It is _you._ Stupid, selfless, compassionate –

_Hero._

There is no solution to offer, no words of comfort that would not ring false. Not with you on the path that you were… the path you needed to be on. Always walking on that path, perpetually determined, always walking forward.

And now here you are, falling forward into his arms. Because you have nothing – no one – to keep you standing. And of course you would. Who _wouldn’t?_ A soul such as yourself could stand anything – strong, independent, powerful and _glorious,_ as vibrant as ever.

If you were alone, you would be fine. If it were only your own sake you fought for, your own fate, your own hopes and dreams – then there would be no question that you could do it. But others were depending on you, dead weight layering their burdens down, never learning to carry it for themselves.

Letting everything rest upon you, letting you carry it all; the weight of a world.

He remembers when you were like this. He’d been like this, too. In those final days before the Final Days, before your fateful departure.

How you had returned home, exhausted, despairing, drained from all the energy their great task had commanded from you. If Elidibus had not dragged Lahabrea to his quarters and banished you to the same, you and him would have worked without sleeping for days.

Stoic and unyielding, departing with dignity even as the Emissary all but commanded you away. Hades had waited for you, even then, waited to sleep until you returned, trusting that you would come back. As foolish as it was in those trying times, he would not let you come home without a welcome, fall asleep outside his arms.

You never complained, not for one moment, not with the weight of all their futures bearing down on you. Conveying yourself with ease and grace befitting of your status even as you trod the streets home alone in the darkest of hours.

Even as you passed the threshold, heard his greeting, and summarily rushed forward to collapse in his arms. Boneless and weak, barely able to hold your head up, let along your own body, you fell into him, let him hold you up. Let him coo and whisper as you simply _existed_ there, not standing, nor leaning.

No word of greeting in response, not the barest acknowledgement of his being there. Unable, unwilling, to verbalize, to express yourself in any way; your mental state thoroughly drained.

He could feel it anyways, as always. The color of your soul, the absence of something that was normally so clear and brilliantly present, an emptiness where your duties had taken their toll. Brightness gone dull, vibrancy faded, your eyes which looked at him but did not see.

It was terrifying, moreso even than the Sound. How you had let yourself fall forwards without making any attempt to break your fall, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. How you laid there in his arms, even for those precious few moments, when he poured his own weary being over yours, lavished you in his soul, covered you in aether pulled from the depths of his being.

A cloak in the likeness of the night sky, pulled over your shoulders, draping down your back in the liquid majesty of the stars, warm but perpetually cooling. Comfort incarnate, the beauty you and he had so often shared before. How you had looked up at those stars and wished for his eyes, asked him to describe it for you…

Speaking to you of his love, gently feeding you the memories one by one. The sky that once had been, the smiles you’d given him, the fresh, cool night air smelling faintly of flowers as you laid back on the grass, the taste of your lips on his. How you had talked and argued and laughed with one another; he shows you your true color, the you untainted by this horrific reality, the person you really are, preserved forever in his mind, his heart, his _soul._

He’d held you all the tighter, clinging to memory and emotion and all the warmth in his chest that had been siphoned away from you. Held you against him so that you could feel it, and slowly, so slowly, come back to life…

But life was so short in supply, so high in demand. For the reality that faced you now, coming back to life meant only more pain.

How you had _sobbed_ , openly, quietly, but in the privacy of your shared room you may as well have been wailing. Those fingers clinging deep into his bones with all the strength that remained to you, body trembling – there was a reason you were numb. No amount of soothing sounds or caresses would calm you, not even the feel of his soul washing over yours did anything to stem the tide of sorrow.

How could it? The fate of the whole world rested upon you. More were lost with each passing day. More yet will be lost, even if you act perfectly. It hurt, and it wouldn’t stop hurting, and there was nothing you or he could do about it and you both _knew it._ Nothing he could do would stop it.

But he held you, still, through the tears and pain and the late nights. Granted you his warmth and presence and company. Spoke with you as much as you could handle, held you and reminded you of all the things you toiled for, all the things you love and missed.

It did not change the reality. It did not make anything better. Nothing could. But it could give you a reason to continue, to struggle on once more… for that day where that precious happiness which had run dry could be returned, when your burdens were lifted.

You came home like that on many nights.

As could only be expected, with the circumstances. They had all labored without cease, but Lahabrea, for whom Creation came most naturally, and you, for whom even the most esoteric and abstract Concepts did spring to life, needed dedicate the most effort.

And look what it had brought to him. To you.

So he does what he can. The best he can.

He takes you home, to Amaurot.

Far away from the petty excuse of civilization the Frist had to offer, where the Dark is at its deepest, the last refuge of it in this world shrouded in Light. Below the ocean and water and waves, cool and deep and smooth where the Light was hard, hot and crystalline.

An air that soothed and smoothed and comforted with familiarity, hushing away and brushing off the memory of sweltering heat borne of unnatural sunlight. He feels the relief rush into your body as you relax against him. Helps you stumble through the room – so like before, it is _so_ like before – and lies you down on the bed with him, on his lap, head resting against his chest.

There you lie, surrounded by sheets softer than any material you’ve ever known. A room decorated in black and gold and mahogany; warmly lit colors, but elegant ones. The light is low and soft, from a source you cannot fathom, casting only a haze of a shadow. There’s nothing to look at, anyways. Anything to see, to have to watch, is too much.

Whatever his face looks like, while he holds you in his arms, while he’s seeing you, his precious and powerful hero who he expects great things from; whatever his expression is, you don’t want to see it. Disappointment, disdain, indifference, _pity_ – it’s all unwanted, all unhelpful.

There is nothing that could be on his face that would not hurt to see.

Closing your eyes, diving fully into the relief of this darkness, you wonder how he feels so soft beneath you, around you. Easily, he helps you into the most comfortable position, adjusting your bodies with ease and sliding you to fit so naturally and perfectly against him.

He's warm beneath you, but a calm, comforting warmth; the surroundings chill you in perfect proportion, enough to make you press yourself further in, to make every part of him pleasant to the touch. Your hands brush over a finely garbed chest, fabric light and airy to the touch, robes plush and cushioning your form over his.

It’s all enough, more than enough, to make you want to curl into yourself, press your hands into his chest and just _feel_ him. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, the sound of a heartbeat against your ear, the feel of arms wrapping around you, holding you tightly and securely.

You can feel his every breath, fine garments pressing into you as his chest expanded, warm and filling with breath, with life. Life he confessed to having stolen from some helpless passerby.

It doesn’t even matter. What does? There’s a whole world to save, and seven have already been _lost._

Just thinking of it makes your chest even tighter, the phantom of an even more crushing embrace – a _weight_ from which there is no escape. To think of this world, so filled with life – _beat, beat,_ his heart in your ear, your own pulse in your chest, the calming brush of his breath against your hair, so _warm_ – so filled with _life_ and _love._

Seven of them are already gone. All the people of this world, and the First is only barely hanging on. To think of how much had been lost already – how much you had failed to save.

And that’s the worst part. Every day, every hour, every moment, you could fail to save someone, somewhere, in some world. If a world was Rejoined it was lost and Rejoined forever, but the only thing left to do after stopping a Rejoining… is to stop the next Rejoining. It went on and on and _on_ again, and no matter how perfect you were, how great your victories, as long as the world _existed,_ it would need to be protected.

There is nothing better, there will never be anything better. The best you can do is live your whole life like this, and die. That’s all there is, now, and forever.

Something out there in the real world, outside your mind, the cocoon of numb rumination you were stuck in – something out there presses in on you, clamping down, holding you just a little bit tighter.

…There must have been things worth fighting for, so long ago. Because you’d started doing this, in the first place; there must have been something that made bearing all this _okay,_ that made this weight not matter…

Worth, what a useless word that is now. How does “worth” help, when you feel like this, when all the world and its future depends on you and you have no way out, no escape? The pressure is on you, here and now, and the lofty ideals of right and wrong and something to protect were faraway, offering no solace.

Your only solace now was in the arms of this _Ascian,_ and even then, it’s nothing.

How does it help to think that there was something you felt was more important than this, when all you can feel now is pain? Exhaustion. Dread.

_Warmth._

You blink hard, in his arms, cradled in his body, soft fabrics all around, soothing touches and tight embrace all over you. His chin is heavy on your head, tucking you further into the crook of his neck. The soft, pale skin of his throat bare and vulnerable on the side of your face.

It’s nothing, all of it. It feels like nothing, nothing feels like anything now but _weight,_ but expectation and anticipation and impending doom, from near or far. Your chest feels heavy, breathing in, breathing out, wide, yawning gulps of air that heave within you, press at your ribs until you force them out.

There’s nothing _for_ you, here, nothing but this crushing feeling and this pain, even as the warmth recedes around you to make way for more and more weight still.

And there’s nothing waiting for you in the future, either. Nothing but more duties, more responsibilities. Another day to fight, to shoulder the world’s burdens. To _pretend_ you could shoulder the world’s burdens, that you were all right, that everything would be all right, even though your only options are failure and to languish even longer still.

Somehow, you feel your hands move, shifting and clenching over some soft cloth somewhere – you cannot quite tell where your arms are anymore, any more than you can tell where below you is him and where is the sheets, the plush mattress below.

You can’t quite feel anything, except that impossible weight on your shoulders, every part of yourself crushed and compressed and _exhausted_ all at once.

It occurs to you that it’s – nothing is gone, it’s all still there, because you _know_ you have to do it all eventually, but –

Arms hold you – tighter and tighter, all the sudden.

It doesn’t help, not really. But right now – _right now, this second,_ you could feel okay this second. Couldn’t you?

You could be okay, right now, right?

Just forget, just pretend – not even, just _don’t think about it,_ let the worries go. Or let them flood out, let yourself tremble in exhaustion, let loose the tears and the flood and the wailing and complaining that the Warrior of Light couldn’t ever express, couldn’t even _hint_ at.

And it comes, so easily does it come, tears leaking without stop, your chest heaving as you feel yourself breath in to sob.

You aren’t allowed to feel this way, aren’t allowed to even think it; to even suggest it to the people who depended upon you would bring them unimaginable despair. You couldn’t put them in that position, couldn’t make them support you, because they didn’t even know _how._

Just knowing how much it hurt you would hurt them, and they could do _nothing_ about it. It would be torture, just to do what? Make your feelings hurt?

You couldn’t do that to them.

But right now, you’re being held so closely, so tightly.

As though nothing in the world could tear you away from this soft, tender warmth that enveloped you entirely, twined itself with you and clutched you to itself. You can’t tell the difference between his body, the sheets, all the softness and plush surroundings meant to comfort and relieve.

It doesn’t matter. You cry, and cry, and cry.

“I don’t want to go out there,” Emet-Selch hears you choke, hears you sob; it is – similar – too similar, _so_ much the same and yet – “I don’t want to. I don’t want to go. Please don’t make me.”

Pitiful. This thing in his arms, mewling, sobbing, crying and complaining like the mortal wretch you were.

Just whole enough to comprehend the enormity of your purpose, but too weak and feeble minded to stand and face it, even being the best among your peers. It could only be expected, being what you are now. As broken as your voice, as your hollow cries and the shuddering in your chest, the clawing of your empty, futile hands. _Pathetic._

Still he keeps his arms around you, lets you bury your disgusting, tear stained face in his neck. Wetting his skin with such pitiful tears as you’d shed for all those other mortals.

Back then, when you were _whole,_ you would never have even expressed a sentiment so disgusting and cowardly –

…

Another sob shakes against his chest, another tiny shudder of a body just as warm as his own, pulsing with blood and life and so much energy, so much vitality; all of it for naught in the face of your future. All of you, crushed under a weight past any ability of yours to bear.

 _You,_ who would take any burden, bear any weight. Someone who had made him smile in his darkest hour, encouraged him and lightened his heart – his _soul –_ the reason he had been able to think he could survive the loss of half his people. Because of you, he had known that he would be able to smile again, as long as you were there in his future.

Memories flood his mind, like the tears flooding your face; all the laughter and joy and ecstatic delight he had shared with you.

The fun of creativity, of sharing and debating ideas with one another; the shared triumphs and struggles, and the warmth of growing alongside one who had but the deepest appreciation and commitment towards the other’s work. The love of one another, the hours spent in your presence in silence and in idle, pointless chatter or conversations about passing fancies and fixations.

The pride in his chest, like no other, to have seen you rise to the Convocation; the shame he had felt at being a second choice, and the way you had patiently rallied and reminded him to take heart and faith in his own achievements, no matter how small.

How you had made the simplest of accomplishments out to be a glorious success… until slowly the new light had crept onto the situation, the problem tilting at another angle; and he saw just how little he had been making of himself, where he would have made so much of others.

So much that had been worth living for, no matter the cost.

But he had not been the one to bear the weight. All he needed to do was act as the catalyst, in that one great and terrible moment. To channel so many souls through himself, never mind what he may lose in the process. _You_ were the ultimate architect of the design – hah! How else would you have summoned her? – and upon _you_ was the weight of conceptualizing the summoning.

The survival of their world, at so great a cost, all depending on your knowledge and understanding. Relying on you to continue as you always have, give all of yourself unto their salvation even as you fell apart in the process. You would do that, because _of course_ you would, you would always ask more of yourself then you would ever dream of asking another person. Than you could ever imagine another person doing for _you._

How could you have expressed it before? How could you have told him anything? And who could blame you, when this was where his mind went in response?

Of course you had wanted out, even then. Away from all the troubles and endless need to help others, the endless need to prove yourself, the struggles with no rewards and no foreseeable end.

Was that where it had begun? Was that when you had left him –

When _he_ had left _you?_

When you once held these feelings but had been unwilling to speak them. Unwilling to burden him, because you knew so intimately how it felt – you knew _nothing_ except that agonizing pressure, the inescapable weight, and that you would do anything for him to not feel the same.

He had allowed you to carry that weight, all that time.

…He really had done nothing for you, had he?

He has to do _something._ Anything, anything different, anything but just let you suffer away like this – there’s nothing that can be said, nothing that can be done, your suffering is just _there,_ ever powerful and looming over everything you did.

But he can still try.

Slowly, shifting without swiftness but with purpose, he gathers you in his arms, lifts you up and off the bed.

Something different. Lying here crying in his arms, even if it is catharsis, is not making you feel better, and maybe nothing else would, but he can at least _try_ something different.

What had Lahabrea said so – oh _so many_ years ago? The definition of insanity was doing the same thing, over and over, and expecting different results. Even if whatever else it was yielded no comfort to you at all, it would be better than just doing _nothing._

Emet-Selch must at least _try_ to make you feel – better, different, _anything._

He can _try._

So he carries you, limp and pliant in his arms, gently shivering, chest shuddering with each laborious breath. Your arms fall from his chest to hang cradled in your body as he curls you to him. Face still buried in his chest, nose pressing between fine layers of linen and silks.

Thankfully, he’s had the good sense to make this room appropriately sized to modern standards, and with you against him, quivering in that familiar pain, soul radiating that same ancient curse of responsibility, of duty and pride – and endless bonds of obligation.

The bath turns on without a touch, water streaming easily into the tub. If you hear the noise – you _must_ hear it – you give no indication.

With an easy thought on his part, your clothes are gone, leaving you entirely bare. In the instant you feel yourself bare he _feels_ you jerk, tense in vulnerability, but no more, only clinging – something resembling clinging – halfheartedly to him. Arms leaned on his shoulders, your hands not quite grasping, but still curled over that furred lining.

Your flesh prickles, but you don’t shudder; he sees you still in his arms. Muscles tensing and coiled, but nothing else, ambivalent even in your nakedness. Taking no action, making no movement on your own, merely laying in his arms to be carried and held.

When he lays you in the warm, pooling water, you do not react perceptively. Emet-Selch expects you to look at him, to meet his eyes, but you only stare up and straight ahead, as though you are all alone –

Alone.

Alone in this world, alone in this life and the last.

It is a shame more familiar than should be proper; the failures of these pitiful, sundered creatures are no fault of his own. _Your_ failure – not yet failure, _you had not failed_ – your struggle to contain the Light, was no mark against him.

He has nothing to be ashamed of, and yet the heat fills his breast all the same.

A heat unlike the old grief and mourning. At least that had not been his fault. He would carry that on their behalf, gladly, but this was a failure all his own. But you’re here, and you’re miserable, and no one had done _anything_ for you, not then, not now. _He_ had not done anything for you.

Perhaps if he had –

The sound of your head sliding back to the front of the tub jerks his awareness towards you. You still do not react to his presence, even though you are naked and mortal and lying prone before him. He watches your face stare emptily up at nothing, the sound of water sloshing in fills the silence.

Unbidden, his lips press together. Moisture gathers now, on his arms where he had laid you carefully in, from the steam in the air, and layers of finery quickly become nigh unbearable. In a moment they are undone, gone, and he is left in a simple, loose white blazer and tight black pants.

If you notice, you make no note of it. If this is insufficient, more unconventional methods must be used; with a snap, the shower is turned on, filling the tub from an unseen angle above.

Streams of water fall on your skin, a sweet and yielding pressure, softer than anything imaginable but leaving a clear press and _press_ with each moment that the droplets pour down. Every point of contact, tapping against you, so brief and smooth as the water hits you and falls away in rivulets.

Warm enough that the chill of bare air against your skin – had it always been cold? – dissipates quickly, the heat of water seeping into your being. All over your chest, arms, your torso, tickling even at your neck. Bare drops speckle against your cheek every now and then.

It feels almost – it feels like – there’s no words, really, and it is a gentle feeling, if persistent, easily sliding to the back of your awareness, and yet constantly there. Water hitting your skin, the spray of it constant and _present_ but still somehow, so very soft…

The water pooling below you, warm at your legs and lower half, rising gently and almost imperceptibly. Encompassing your form slowly and entirely. It covers every ilm of you, reaching everywhere, not exactly heavy, but not light. Imparting warmth and surrounding your limbs entirely in a heat so natural and comfortable you forget it is there until the feeling creeps up and up with the water’s rise.

You feel your fingers curling in your hands. As though you could grasp the water, if you just held it right – if you closed your fingers in the right way – you could just _hold it –_

A hand enters your vision, without any forewarning. Ungloved, it takes you a moment to recognize it; long, slender fingers that are cool and uncalloused against your own wet hands, threading easily through your own fingers, lifting your hand up delicately.

You follow the motion to a face, an expression on it that defies all reason. Lips part but there is nothing to say, there are no words.

Why is he looking at you like this?

What is the meaning behind that look in his eyes, the impossible tenderness, that gold that glowed softly instead of gleaming with intent and all the wicked brilliance within? His features are unbound for once; those uniquely sculpted brows raised up and drawn apart, his lips relaxed and allowed to dip at the corners, chin lowered and unguarded.

You watch and watch, as he brings your hand to his lips, closing his eyes as he bows his face to the back of your palm, pressing mouth and cheek alike to your wetted skin.

You watch those dark lashes of his flutter, ever so slightly, you watch his brows twitch near imperceptibly as his lips meet your hand, something like a shudder going through him, to touch you.

You only notice your mouth is open so wide when you draw a sharp breath – a _gasp_ – and suddenly the air, though hot, is especially cool as it is sucked over your wet lips, your tongue.

Intimate awareness of your mouth, your barely-wet face, springs into being, sensations striking you thoroughly and without warning.

Heat, heat past the regular warmth, twines with the coolness on your cheeks, the water chasing away the chill of your wet skin bared – bared to the air and to _him_ – but the look on his face, as he slowly pulls away from your hand, drawing his eyes straight to lock with your own.

Meeting your gaze without hesitation.

Pleased with your reaction – pleased to have any reaction at all – Emet-Selch sets himself to task.

With care does he set your hand down back into the water, now near waist-high for you. He draws his eyes away from yours, but keeps his gaze on his own hands in the water. Whether you follow his gaze or not, he does not know, but it is less important than what he does now.

What he does for you.

Cupping water in his palm, pressing fingers tight together to hold it, he swiftly lifts it up, through the stream of water from above, even, and ever so carefully, slowly, crowns you with the gathered warmth in his hands. Hot and streaming through his fingers.

Pleasure like no other fills him, lifts his mood, to watch your eyes blink, and widen, hands moving to your head and hair with an unconscious _swiftness,_ with intent, even if reactionary. He moves for you, carefully cupping his hand against your forehead to keep the rivulets from your eyes, and is further pleased to feel your hands meet his.

There’s still blankness, stoniness on your face. Empty eyes stare at him with only the faintest glimmering of surprise, your shoulders are still low and heavy, and perhaps this would not fix it. Perhaps nothing would.

But that is okay. Anything he can do is okay, is enough; as long as it is _something._ Even if this pain cannot be meliorated, even if your weight cannot be lifted and your sorrows banished; Emet-Selch will not deny it any longer. He will not watch in silence any more.

He will do better for you, this time.

Even if you are broken, if _he_ is – just a bit – broken, too. Even if you cannot be helped, even if your hurts cannot be healed and you won’t feel any better at all; he will be here for you, now. This suffering will not go unacknowledged, nor your efforts unappreciated, your skills unrecognized, and _you_ will **_not_** _go unloved._

You don’t move any further; your arms fall to your sides after moments, your gaze drawn back out to some distant nothingness. But your skin is warm beneath his hands, your heart is beating, even if you cannot feel it yourself.

Shattered as you are, burdened and heavy with weight you may very well break under; you are still _here._ You are still _alive._ And you could be – for just right now, you could be okay.

He could make you feel a little better, in this moment. Or if not; he could _try._

So when you sit there limply, unmoving and unresponsive still, he pours the water over you, over your skin and hair, warm and steaming. He keeps it from getting in your empty eyes, brushes the sweat from the heated water off your brow with gentle strokes of his thumb.

Over and over, he wets you, dampens your hair and conjures a soap to work into it.

With great care does he work it into your roots, smoothing the foam from your scalp to the tip. Always keeping an eye on your face to ensure nothing gets into your eyes. You lean back, and he moves with you, on his knees at the side of the tub. Only for you.

You close your eyes almost obediently, and he keeps your hair back, off your face.

His nails scrape over your scalp with the utmost of tenderness, and you are reminded by the smooth drag of it against you that they had been painted. Caressing and smoothing over, working the soap into a froth even as he drew lines and swirls over your head, tugging your hairs along with it in smooth motions.

With your head over the side of the tub, the water should be dripping onto the ground, but it does not. It stirs the faintest confusion within you, but you wince your eyes closed as he layers more and more water over your head, filtering through the suds in your hair, washing it all away, leaving but a pleasant, familiar, vaguely warm and homey scent in its wake.

Impossibly, smelling it reminds you of the color of his eyes. Amber and gold and yellow and every shade between; the blinding brilliance of the sun, the radiance of the dawn, or the sweet stickiness of honey, of caramel, rich and heady on your tongue like his voice –

You open your eyes; it seems his work on your hair is done. But you spot another vial in his hands, smaller; this one he carefully pours out an appropriate amount and leans in, taking your hair into his other hand. He works it into the ends first, you feel the gentle tug of his hands spreading the substance through your hair, carefully, distributing it evenly.

You stare while he does it; Emet-Selch’s eyes do not stray, he focuses entirely on his task, his hands making smooth, efficient movements that gently brush and tug your hair with practiced, comfortable ease. In fact, ignorant entirely of your gaze, he moves to kneel behind you at the head of the tub, smoothing the length of your hair all the while.

It isn’t cold, but you feel your knees pulling up anyways, moving so you are nearly curled up. The water only comes up to just below your breasts, so your knees meet cool air outside the embrace of the warmth below.

So you reach out, wrap your arms around them and pull your legs tightly into you, feeling a slight tug on your hair as Emet-Selch leans forward to accommodate your movement. Fingertips glide over the back your neck, glossy nails slipping over your wet skin with ease as he gathers your hair up and moves his fingers into your roots.

It's warm. Hot, even, from the bathwater. Your legs radiate an even heat from being submerged, warming the inside your arms even as the air cooled away at the skin bared to it. But even the air is hot, filled with steam, and the water pouring down still dots against your skin everywhere, little reminders pressing into you and blooming into rivulets of warmth.

Only when you blink do you notice you are crying. Without thinking you raise a hand to your face, brushing the tear away with the back of your hand. One tear, and then another – and then another.

Because this doesn’t change anything. Because it’s warm, and soft all around you, and you’re surrounded by all the gentleness and easy fluid feelings in the world, and it’s not enough, not nearly enough to make it all go away.

All you have to do, all you’ll have to face tomorrow, and the next day, it’s all still there and you _know it._ It still weighs on you, heavier than the water on your skin, in your hair, dripping even more than the fat, weak, _pathetic_ tears that escape your eyes.

You catch them on your wrists and then you bury your face in your hands, leaning forward, letting your legs fall back down.

If he notices, he doesn’t do anything about it, simply working over your hair with that same tender diligence. He merely reaches further, slicks your hair over one last time, and then he is at the side of the tub again, hands filled with water just barely steaming.

Only barely from the corner of your eyes do you notice, but he pours it over your head again, and you feel his hands roaming over your head and hair to divert appropriately direct the water. The stream from above gentles, slightly, and you notice the tub has filled up to your breasts.

Your arms are trembling, now, hands furiously pressed to your eyes, as though you can press those tears away, make them _stop,_ not show, no one can _see_ you like this. The water laps at your chest with as it heaves with a barely contained sob, brushing up to your collarbone.

It’s another kind of warmth, to be submerged in; the bath is deep and wide. You are not quite floating, but your legs drift in the water, not quite drawn down wards, and your face hanging low is ilms from the surface.

Why won’t the tears stop? There’s more to do, more you _have_ to do, and you know it, and this isn’t going to fix anything so why won’t it just _stop?_

You feel your shoulders shake, only stopping as heat pours over them again, careful hands threading through your hair and helping the stream flow through it, thoroughly cleansing.

Those hands lathe over your hair, your shoulders, directing the warmth and sliding over your skin with tenderness and ease. Not clinging, not feeling, but sliding over it with long strokes of care and caution. They’re cool, or at least cool compared to your own flushed skin, but warm enough to be soothing and not entice shivers.

Shoving your hands to your side, to cross them over your chest, you blink hard, and harder, and they just pool in your eyes all the more, and more, dripping down into trails over your cheeks.

You stay like that for a few moments, head hung, looking down at your body from in the water. Letting him wash through your hair again, stroking and smoothing with skilled hands. You’re not sure how much you cry, but his hands stay in your hair, on your hair, for longer than they probably need to be.

Shutting your eyes even tighter, you raise your head up, bring newly wet hands up to your face, bringing water to splash your face, a burst of new heat. You leave your hands over your face, then, brushing water away from your eyes even though you don’t open them.

Those hands cover yours, large and long and placid like the water below you. Little drops meet your skin, your back and shoulders; there’s not much coming anymore, but each drip splashes on you all the more when there are less of them.

You can feel it, though.

Opening your eyes, you pull back, and he pulls his hands away at that moment, dropping them along with yours. You’re still blinking tears out of your eyes when you meet his gaze, a sudden heat on your cheeks; from the water, the air, from this pathetic state you’re in that he’s looking at now –

And yet…

And yet.

The look he gives you makes you want to cry even more, has you barely keeping yourself from full out sobbing, because, because –

_That smile –_

Those eyes of gold are sweet as honey, open with a strange trust and compassion that you can barely comprehend, a depth of empathy as though he can stare straight into your soul – _he can_ – and cannot tear his eyes from what he sees, despite the pain. Brows wide with sympathy and lips turned just barely upwards, faint and sincere and altogether enough to make you want to _melt._

Suddenly you – you feel too _exhausted,_ as though the heat has sapped all the strength from your limbs, but you find them drifting anyways, in the water. Leaning towards him is an effort enough that you’re satisfied, falling forward into his arms, wetting his shirt, so fine and white it becomes immediately transparent anyways.

His arms wrap around you without a thought, lifting you up, water sloughing off you, into the tub below. Your hair is sodden but quickly he runs a hand through it, and it grows damp, almost towel-dried.

Emet-Selch brings you back to the bed and you let him, because you don’t have the energy to move. You’re tired, you’re so tired and you don’t want to face tomorrow, you don’t want to have to wake up and see those expectant faces, the demands of so many to be thrown at you.

You’ll take it all, you’ll accept it all, no matter how much you shouldn’t, because that is who you are.

He cannot decide if he admires or loathes this, but right now it matters not; what matters is what is right in front of him. What changes can be worked, he will work, as slowly and carefully as he must work them. However it must be done to help you to become a version of yourself who can be happy, who can stop _giving_ so much, and care for yourself, as he does…

But for now – for _right here,_ and _right now_ –

He can make you happy, just for now. And if he cannot – then he can _try._

So he sits you on the bed, a towel beneath you, and goes to work on your body with another tower. It’s plush and soft and specially warmed, everywhere he draws it across your skin, it leaves you feeling warm and dry, moisture not entirely drawn away, but not dewing on your skin, either.

With controlled, unassuming strokes he dries your body, eyes focused and intent, following the curves and valleys of your flesh with the utmost precision. Heat floods your cheeks but the look on his face, his concentration and the utter _devotion_ in his eyes, in his movements, how his hand guides the towel and angles it to catch every bit of water left on your skin.

His other hands goes to grasp at the side of your waist, warm and fitted perfectly to the curve of it, lying gently without further movement.

Even when you are dry entirely, he lays the towel at your legs, and his shirt, drenched and entirely see through, disappears entirely. Your clothes, however, reappear; but as you fall back onto the bed, you realize that you’ve never owned any clothes like this.

They’re soft, and fine, and brush over your skin with your movements, breathable and easy. He goes to lie next to you, his boots gone, clad in nothing but a simple half-robe and undershorts.

“I love you,” He says, and as he says it, Emet-Selch realizes it’s the first thing he’s said aloud to you since he’s brought you here. “I love you,” he repeats, just to hear the sound of it, and finds it pleasing to his lips.

There are no words for the expression he sees you make – the look in your _eyes_ as he says the words, and then says them again.

It almost hurts to see you so surprised, but that will wear away. He will pour his love onto you again and again until you grow warmed to it, until it sinks deep into your bones such that it might never leave you.

“I love you more than – more than you know,” There is so much, _so much,_ you do not know, you could not possibly know or understand, the depth to this unimaginable feeling that remains so fierce and great with him, after so many lifetimes, “I love you. _I love you.”_

It's as though the words just _unlock_ you, unwinding and unlinking, it’s such a pretty phrase but there’s so little too it, but the way he _looks_ when he says it, his _voice –_

“Someday,” He promises you, as he gathers you in his arms again, feels you go lax in true relaxation, leaning into him deeply and desperately, feeling the warmth of his body on your own, “I will tell you. You will know the extent of my love, what you are, who you are, to me.”

You shudder against him, clutching back with limbs nearly bereft of strength, and Emet-Selch cannot but wonder if you know, anyways.

“I,” The voice he hears nearly croaks from tears caught in it, and he finds himself hushing you, gently, “I, also, love,”

“I know,” He says, and it sounds like a sigh, of relief or whatever else. “I know.”

He does; you know he does, you can feel he does, because he holds you now as though he can think of nothing he would rather do with his arms. As though he holds not a person, but his own beating heart close to his chest, tightly and yet not suffocating. Securely, as though you might slip away if he does not take care.

Warmth _floods_ from him, into you, along with myriad whispers, nearly incoherent phrases, but your Echo shows you the images between.

**_You were always so dedicated_ **

**_You tried so hard for everyone around you_ **

Oh, it’s so familiar – you know it is you, you see as though it is yourself, watching yourself, even though you know you’ve never been like this before, you can tell it is you.

**_And for me_ **

It’s you, and it’s him, but you don’t remember any of this happening to yourself, but –

**_For me you were_ **

There’s no other words; the image, the idea and sound of words in your mind’s eye disappears, lost in the flood of memories, in the sensations he pushes on you that coalesce, that mix with the warmth and comfort he presses into your present self.

His smile is everywhere, the feel of _him,_ of his nearness, ever-present in the memories, the feeling of a hand twining with yours, of gentle dark robes brushing against one another, the sound of his voice, his laughter in the air – a lighter laugh, sweeter –

And then you _do_ remember, he shows you memories from his own perspective that you recognize well, of a conversation in the Greatwood, of stolen pleasures while you search for a Lightwarden, he shows you how you look coming undone from him and the way he’d _felt_ looking at you then sends your heart pulsing out of your chest –

And he shows you again an old memory of you smiling at him, true and bright, sharing a drink that burned like nothing that had ever existed – but you know the flavor well, on the tip of your tongue – and then it’s back to the Pendants, and you watch from his eyes as you call him an angel and he _does not know what to do with himself_ –

And he’s sighing, looking down at a table, white hair hanging from his face until a hand comes from nowhere and lifts up his chin, a voice that is **_love_** and **_happiness_** and **_I want to hear more of it_** speaks to him and says something and suddenly his mood is lifted and it doesn’t seem so hard anymore –

And looking up, now, he sees someone outraged at him, face twisted in displeasure, and feels only terrible sorrow – **_how I had wronged you, my love_** – and pain and pleasure burst into him both, but the keening in his soul does not stop until – until – is it something about a Creation –

It's you, you, everywhere, over and over, smiling at him, encouraging him, lifting his spirits; even to _see_ you, to speak to you, lights his world into colors and feelings and vibrant pleasure in his heart.

**_This is you, to me_ **

There is the person who is you again, in the memories, and then there is you, the you of present day, and then there is

**_Love_ **

And then –

And then –

A thousand more, a million, memories of simple things, tiny exchanges. A joke, a quip, a good-natured spat, a million useless conversations and a hundred more desperately important ones, moments of strength and confidence where you stood tall for him and gave him your strength –

When you told him he was good enough, would always be good enough, and he believed you –

When you smiled at him and when he realized he could _make you happy_ –

And you made him as happy as he made you; a joy unlike any other.

**_Love you_ **

**_Love you_ **

**_Love you love you love you_ **

It all runs together into one great river; and through it all, he does not loosen his grip on you, not in the least. Instead he tells you again, again, with his words as well as his soul, just how much he loves you.

Warmth runs into you and the heat is greater than the weight, even the weight of the world is lost in the intensity of these precious moments. Because here, and now, you are warm, you can _feel_ it, feel him, feel his love, he presses it into you and into you and does not relent, not for anything.

Because the weight is in the future, and it’s _real,_ and you do _know_ it is real, as sure a reality as him here with you.

But he’s here, too. He’s holding you, too. And he loves you, he loves you so dearly, and you make him _so, so happy._

So, right here, right now, just for this moment, these moments –

You’re okay. It’s okay. You feel okay, you feel happy, almost, because all you feel is the sum of his warm embrace, his affectionate words, his smile and longing, adoring eyes, the memories of shared failure and success, of encouragement and friendship and compassion that ran deeper than anything you had ever imagined –

And respect so profound it struck you like a chord. That he thought the world of you, then, and that slowly it had leaked into you now.

You’re here, feeling safe and loved and treasured, while the world out there needs you, even if not this moment. It’s not enough to piece this treasured peace, but it seeps in; to you it feels like a night unearned; this world had to fight for that – had to have you fight for that, to restore the night sky, and here you are, indulging in it all the same.

He can tell you feel ashamed by how comforted you are. You’re ashamed to enjoy this, you think you don’t _deserve_ to be this happy and content, sheltered in the dark while others burn –

As He had sheltered them in His Dark while the world burned and warped from Sound and godlike Creation, Precepts manifesting and ordering the world to His will. They watched, safe in His protection, all those who had been sacrificed for, while the world burned around them.

Emet-Selch holds you tight, combs his fingers through your hair as he whispers all words he knows that are sweet and soothing, uncaring what language it is that he speaks, that you hear.

“I want…” The words come from you slowly, you grind them out, breath by breath, even though what you _want_ to say will never pass your lips, “I want… to _not_ feel this way…”

A laugh – he cannot help it, cannot stop it, even though his heartstrings pull at it, even though he feels you tense in his arms to hear it – erupts from his lips, wry and sardonic.

“So do I,” Emet-Selch sighs, holding you closer. “So do I.”

He feels you breathing, that mortal blood in your veins pounding through your body that fits so perfectly flush to his. Pulling you tight to him, relishing the _feel_ of you in his arms –

No, it never went away. Just as with you. It’s still there, the agony within his breast, the weight of millennia, the eons of history and knowledge and grief. It’s still there, and you are there with it, past and present, another soul which he _must_ see preserved, at all costs.

…It’s a weight worth having, is it not? There could be nothing else worth this much.

The feel of you in his arms, of your soul preening in delight, even encumbered as it is, radiating what small pleasure it could.

“Can I…” You say, as though with great effort, “Can I just… be happy…”

It breaks his heart to hear. It is so familiar, so strange, a question he has not the courage to ask – a question he does not deserve to ask yet, for He is not there to answer, He is suffering and Sundered while he walks whole and free.

“You make me happy. I just… I just want to stay with _you…_ ”

There is no answer, it is not a question.

“Yes.” It spills from his lips without permission.

“I can’t.” The terrible admission is true, you both know.

There’s too much that needs your attention, too many ties that bind you, and him alike. The world is out there and it is _real,_ as real as you are in his arms, and as he is in yours.

“You cannot,” Emet-Selch tells you, instead of denying, because you are _you,_ the one he had so admired and loved and respected; there would be no pretty lies or petty comforts for one such as you.

You’ll have to leave, it’s true, but…

But he is here, still, and you are here, too. And as long as you are still here…

“But,” He says, “You will come back. You shall always have a place to return to. With me.”

And the moment he says it, he knows it is true. And _you_ know it is true.

You will always have a place in his arms, by his side.

Even if you must leave. Even if the world demands things of you, even if you fail, even if you can feel almost nothing at all and he cannot pry even one spark of joy from you for days on end, even if his never-ending grief and failure sinks its claws deep in him, even if your goals and methods collide, even if a thousand other things –

For you, for him.

This love is here, for both of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Depression is a hard topic for everyone, I’m sure. The most important thing to do is to get help, but sometimes that’s hard. Really hard. I don’t have much I can say that’s very helpful, because if there were some easy answer I could give you all to help, then it would be everywhere, and depression wouldn’t be such a devastating problem. 
> 
> I’m not qualified to give advice, and nor should you take anything I say with that much importance… but I’ll say my piece. 
> 
> Reach out to new people. Reach out in small ways, small interactions or conversations. Talk about things you like. If the things you like, you can no longer enjoy; search for things you can enjoy. Try new things, try different things, try anything but what you’ve been doing before. It’s true that none of that might help, but doing things the way you normally do them won’t help either. Whether it’s your version of self-care, cleaning yourself up or just cleaning up, or social interaction; anything that makes you feel a little better about yourself or your life, maybe it’s playing a game you enjoy, or reading or writing any kind of fiction; just try different things. 
> 
> Sometimes that doesn’t work. Sometimes advice like this just will not help, and you need more, be it from a professional on the regular, or from medication, or from both. But this is what I can give you, right here, and right now. Whether you’re clinically depressed, or just in a sad mood, or something sad has happened to you. 
> 
> Remind yourself that there are things in this life you enjoy, and never stop seeking that enjoyment. Whether that joy is from human contact, from playing a game or reading a fanfiction or writing one – or anything else in between. It's not an “escape”, it’s not a “fantasy”. It is happiness, and happiness is real. These are the things people live their whole lives for, when their lives are going badly. If it brings you joy, it is worth living for. It’s what we’re all living for. 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading; I hope you all enjoyed, despite the delay. Writing is one of the things that brings me joy in life, and you all had better believe I will carry this joy and share it, for all that it has carried me. Believe me when I say that even my words can’t express how much happiness I have gained by knowing that my writing has brightened someone’s day or delighted them to read.  
> If I ever find a way to say it – I promise, I will share that too. 
> 
> Take care, my friends. Remember, Emet-Selch loves you and wants you to be happy! As do I! 
> 
> <3


	26. Only waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re wrong, all of them.  
> It isn’t sleeping Emet-Selch is overly fond of. He isn’t sleeping. Only waiting.

When first they plot the Calamity after the disaster in the Thirteenth, Emet-Selch _notices._

Dragged out of his grief by possibility and necessity – the Sundered cannot be remotely trusted to attend to matters of import themselves – he treads once more the sundered land. Looks upon the sundered peoples.

And he sees –

And he _sees –_

It is faint. Pathetic, really. But the color is unmistakable –

And if this pithy fragment of yourself is without any memories, the memories with which you would surely deny him… well, all the better, no? This person who is you and yet not you _enough,_ has not lived your life, had not earned the experiences and knowledge of your past self.

Even if he were to tell you, the not-enough you, you don’t have the understanding to know what it all means. You don’t have the years of study to comprehend the theory and what it means, and in this tiny mortal life you won’t _ever_ have enough _time,_ even.

He is doing you a favor, really. This small, pitiful, fragmented life your sundered self must live – you will live no better, than at his side. No more happiness will you find, no more fulfillment and devotion and _love_ would you _ever_ receive than you would with him.

For such a short time, it is a trifle, really. He sees you, finds you, and inserts himself into your life, takes you into his arms and ensures your days pass as comfortably as possible. Your every need is met, your every wish and dream fulfilled.

Emet-Selch pries your heart’s desires from you, carefully, slowly, unravels your small soul in the old-fashioned way; by speaking to you, observing you, living life alongside you. He touches your heart and takes it into his hands, in the manner of your mortal brethren, with soothing hands and sweet words.

He smooths away the fears and worries and holds you tight to him to feel his warmth, a depth of being and existence you cannot comprehend.

Even sundered as you are, you know it somehow, you know how great he is and try to shy from his being, you draw back from him and profess unworthiness (aren’t you unworthy, you sundered thing) but he does not permit it, will never permit it again.

In this life, this small life of yours, he can have you, he can have all of you, for all little of you there is left to him. But he can have you all. He can have you, willing. And he only wants the best for you, in any case.

(Hythlodaeus’s voice – why always _his_ voice and not yours? – tells him, in the back of his mind, that this is an excuse, that he is still deceiving you, but who would the truth really help at all?)

He loves you and loves you and pours his soul into your care and keeping until you nearly _glow,_ radiant, resplendent with his love. Small but _bright,_ so bright, like all the stars in the sky, apart entirely from the pitiful lifestream of today, the sickly, low glow of sundered, incomplete souls.

You are so _familiar,_ so open and free with your kindness, so eager to offer him what support you can in return, even if you can never do as much as he does for you, even if you are broken, _sundered_.

It feels like home. For a scant few decades, it feels like he’s home again, like he is with _you_ (but not you, not quite, not _enough_ of you), and for all he has lost, and all he must do, he can return to you with warmth in his chest.

This sundered world around you means nothing, these pitiful people who occupy your concerns are barely _people_ at all, though he permits you to find your purpose in helping them, interacting with them, as long as you return to him. As long as he may keep this treasured color, for him and him alone to look upon and hold close.

None of them can see, none of them are like him in the least, none of them are even close to capable of knowing you, loving you, like he does. And he does, so well. So deeply and truly, and over the passage of years, mere heartbeats, he grows content.

And then you die.

Emet-Selch sleeps, then, for a long time.

The others say he has fallen prey to sloth and weariness, that he is overconfident and lax in his due diligence, that he sleeps and sleeps away while they all labor without cease for their cause.

He is not sleeping. Only waiting.

Such a thing as a soul does not simply return to the world immediately, nor is he about to watch you go through the earlier stages of your life like some predator. He lingers, just at the edge, by the Source, of course. Waiting, watching, even in his sleep, dreaming of your color.

He waits for you. Lahabrea’s lips curl in disgust and even Elidibus radiates disapproval in the midst of his calm pretense of indifference. They do not approve, and yet he does not care, not in the slightest. Like them, he answers to Him and Him alone, and if He disapproves at all, He has not said so.

(How could He? He is sundered, broken, sealed. But if Emet-Selch knew, in his heart of hearts, that He would have disapproved, then the stain on his soul would have surely stopped him in his place, no? That is the chain of logic they follow, Elidibus and Lahabrea and those pointless fragments.)

(They are wrong.)

Emet-Selch waits until he sees you, sees you come into your own, sees this fragment of your soul – which grows and _grows_ with every Rejoining, each restoration of rightness, each piece of yourself slotted back into place – born into this world. Each life you live carries its unique experiences and circumstances and biases, but the color is you, always _you,_ always unmistakable.

He dreams of his hell and his heaven, the underworld in all its remembered glory of eld, and the disappointment of the modern age, looking, always looking and searching, watching and waiting for that color he knows so well to spark back into the living world.

He watches as you are born again, and when he sees, he closes his eyes, and he sleeps. But he cannot rest, not truly; only wait.

So he waits, and he waits, and he _waits._ For you to grow into someone who can be by his side.

Some lives you die young and he never meets you, only waits more. Some lives you do not amount to anything, just another confused soul wandering the earth, making foolish mistakes and failing and disappointing him at every turn. Even then, though, he cannot keep himself away.

It assures him, somehow, even as much as it frustrates him, and stirs some other unnamable feeling in his chest along with everything else; that even in your worst moments, worst lives, even _fragmented_ and weak and pitiful and being the worst, the _smallest_ version of yourself – still, you are his love. Still, you love him.

And those are your worst lives, your worst self. This fragmented, beaten, damaged you is filled with weakness and uncertainty, even when you are lost in life and hurting those around you, bringing shame to yourself and those you love at every turn, he looks upon you and finds, unfortunately, that he still loves you, regardless.

He finds himself despairing of you, well and truly. He had thought the people of this world could be no more wretched and disturbing; he is wrong. All his expectations for you are shattered, every probe of character and trust he makes is rebuffed.

The _excuses_ he makes. You are petty, but you are young. You are lazy, but diligence is a hard-won virtue. You are weak, but your soul is sundered. Flaw after flaw in your character he dismisses, despite watching you treat others wrongly, watching you avoid responsibility, rely upon others and make their lives difficult with your own ignorance and inconsiderate nature, fail to improve yourself at every turn and languish in your own misery and weakness.

Short-tempered, frustrated with the disaster you’ve worked upon your fleeting little life, and too young and foolish to see a way forwards, too self-centered to accept blame and improve yourself.

Excuse after excuse he makes, certain that he can _fix it._ That you can get _better._

Every attempt he makes to connect with you fails, by no fault of his own; however patient, kind, and understanding he is, you fail each time to reach back, to establish contact. He watches you take other lovers, even, and though he has seen you do so in past lives, it’s never quite been like this, he has never outright wanted to _kill_ someone quite so bad.

Those lovers you’d had who were kind to you, he had spared. He took no other lovers himself, of course, not ever throughout the years. Why would he, when all he ever came to this wretched, Sundered world for, was you?

As though any of these fragmented creatures could _ever_ suffice.

(Igeyorhm comes to him, once. Because he was the one who had raised her to office. After the fall of the Thirteenth, after her ultimate failure and disgrace. Thinking he would sympathize with her disappointment in mortals who had failed to challenge her in the slightest.

Her soul is a deep, smooth violet. Emet-Selch is tempted, just for a moment – you aren’t _alive_ now, you won’t be for years and it’s not even _you_ he’s waiting for, it’s a mere fragment, less of a person than even this Ascended who comes to him now.

But it’s not your blue. It’s not your blue. It’s not _you_ and that makes her repulsive to him, disgusting, his own soul churns and roils against itself because what is this?

This is not you. He is meant for _you,_ and you alone, if it is not you, he does not want it. Just the thought of touching another has him recoiling in his own mind, has that color flickering again in his head, showing him just so clearly who it is he loves, not the size of the soul or its condition, but the _color,_ the part that is you and you alone.

If it’s not your blue, he will not have it. No other soul in this world shares your hue, there is _nothing_ like you and if nothing is all that is there then nothing is what he will have. He turns Igeyorhm away, mocking, scornful.

Her bitterness is delicious. It tastes right. Even rejecting someone for you is doing something _for you_ and he will take any connection he can get. Any feeling of being closer to you, in any way, no matter what it is.

And when she mocks him, distains his attachment to a _dead_ mortal – to a traitor who left the Convocation in its hour of need – to _you –_

That Igeyorhm is no more.

Emet-Selch goes to raise up another, and ensures she receives most, but not all, of her predecessor’s memories. Not that Elidibus or Lahabrea would have cared so much that she had been discarded. Not after her failure.)

You don’t remember. You are not his lover in this life. He has no claim on you except that he _knows_ you, knows your soul, and though he would not dream of making demands he does not hesitate to pry your lovers from you by coercion, by force, by playing matchmaker or on occasion disguising himself as _you._

But these people, the ones who hurt you, he does not suffer to live, even if it means watching you wail all the more _pathetically_ about it. He’s let you walk into your own messes, burn yourself with your own foolishness, but this, he will protect you from. This harm he will not stand to see you endure.

Not even when you seem so eager to endure it. So distraught at its loss. Disgust churns in his gut, because why?

Why does he keep doing this? Why does he chase after you, when you are at your worst? When you refuse to have him, and when you – you are not worth wanting at all! You are petty and stupid and selfish like all the other mortals, and when you are in need of comfort and reassurance, assistance and protection, _still,_ he provides it!

(This time, it is because of him. _This_ time. All the times before, you had brought this suffering onto yourself, and he had helped you all the same.)

He is not your lover, he is barely even your friend. All the goodwill and favors he has shown you have been for naught; you do not heed his advice, you do not seek out his company, you do not even _speak_ to him of your own volition.

You are curt, mean-spirited; unbearably quiet, in your best moods, as though empty of anything to say. Can you truly think of _no way_ at all to express yourself? He has told you time and time again, led by example, shown you only his best self, the ideal citizen and friend.

Always he guides you, despite your ignoring it, he tells you that you are better than this, that you can be better than this, despite your always proving him wrong. He had _deigned_ to try and save your disgusting lover’s life, told you to leave someone who treated you so badly.

(Maybe you knew what he was thinking of you and agreed. Maybe you thought that was what you deserved, to be treated like that.)

Fool among fools, you are. This is one thing he’s done for you that he does not feel was in vain. You have disappointed him, and you will continue to disappoint him, but if you are being perpetually hurt by someone else, how can you ever change? How can _he_ stand by and watch, in any case?

You’re just another mortal. Pitiful. Disturbing. Depressing.

The sight really is a curse. If only he could not see your color, if only he could not _see,_ if only he did not _know_ so intimately and terribly well, so certain in his heart and soul that this is _you,_ this awful broken person is still _you._ He knows your color by sight, but it’s there in every moment he spends with you, as well.

The words you choose, the direction of your gaze, your opinions and feelings, how you react to this or that. Things that should not be the same, for this tiny fragment of yourself has lived a completely different life, with different experiences and beliefs. Some unnamable, unidentifiable, which he can quantify only as _you._

You. This is _you._ Even if only a portion, even if only a piece.

It brings him to his knees. Him, Emet-Selch, Angel of Truth, collapsed in the face of mere disappointment. Brought low by a tiny, sundered mortal soul with the bluest hue –

His eyes whip up.

“You can see so well…” You say.

You’re sitting on front of him, back on your heels, eyes downcast.

“If you can see that well… You always see right through me. Never afraid to tell me what you think is right, never afraid to tell me what you think I should do, even when you know… I’m being stupid…” The voice he hears is filled with sorrow.

How he despises himself for the hope that immediately is set alight, how the sparks ignite to flame at just the _thought –_ that you are willing to _listen,_ that you are willing to admit to your mistakes – someone like that is already better than who you have been in this life –

You change before his eyes, right here and now; the sight is beautiful, exquisite to behold. It is _you._

“Even though, I,” He looks up, sees your face, and somehow there is a smile on it; you have brought yourself to smile for him, “I know I haven’t been – I don’t know why, you helped me, all this time, I know I’m – I’m not… that great…”

He has brought a smile to you. It is a sad one, a bitter one, but it is there because of him.

“Even though I’m like this,” You blink hard, and he notices the tears dewing at the corner of your eyes, “You, you still, care. About me. You know people so well, you have everyone all figured out, and you, you see right through all kinds of lies and deception, you always know the truth. And you’re not afraid to say it.”

He’s reached a hand out to your face without noticing, cupping your cheek and brushing away tears with a thumb, almost as if on instinct. You continue speaking anyways, as though the words have all finally come pouring out.

“You are the most amazing person I know,” You say, in a statement that sounds like a sigh. “So that… that makes your love all the more precious, doesn’t it? If you see something in me, I…”

Emet-Selch falls.

He falls to you, always.

Again, and again, and again, and again, in a thousand _thousand_ lives.

In that life, he gave you a quiet love. A simple, gentle love, sequestering you away in some place where you could discover yourself, free from influence, while he attended his duties with impeccable planning and diligence as always. He lives beside you through years long and hard, some of them thoroughly miserable, even when you are away from poisonous influence.

But he is content, because he is with you. And over years long and hard he learns to make you smile and shows you how to make him smile – shows you how it feels, to have someone whose mood you could brighten just a kind word or look. He falls and falls over the years, and it doesn’t matter how hard they are, because it is with _you_ and he would have no other.

The day does come when you smile freely, when your heart is light and your mind unburdened. You were always this color, but you’ve never been so bright, not in this life. And after all the cracks he’s seen form in your soul, all the warping of your own making and of others, and how he’d watched you shape yourself back into something worthwhile over the years – Emet-Selch is _attached._

When you fall ill, he knows he means to die with you. He wants to die already. After all the work – after all the _progress!_ After all he’d struggled to pull you into happiness, after all the pride he had felt, watching you pull yourself –

You fall ill and he keeps you as comfortable and happy in your old age and weak state as you could possibly be.

When you die, he follows swiftly.

(Elidibus does not approve. Lahabrea has long since abandoned judgement for open disdain. He doesn’t care. He waits for you.)

It matters not how badly your life is going, how badly _you_ are going.

He finds himself sympathizing with your worries and fears (in any other, he would have dismissed, he had not the compassion left for them), showing you his sincere concern and care regardless of your response. Worming his way into your heart with genuine kindness.

(And keen vision. And the powers of an Ascian worked upon any rivals in love. And all the knowledge he had of your soul, of who you were – who you are. Who this piece of you is.)

Like an angel descending from the heavens, to this weak and worthless world, to share with you the _truth._ The truth of who you are, who you _could_ be, no matter how you have forgotten it. No matter how long it takes you to realize your greater self.

Most lives, though, you rise above.

Head and shoulders above these pathetic, sundered creatures. Your color naturally shining, bright and brilliant, as surely as it had, in days long since passed. Your compassion, your determination and humility; how you sought to help others, to better the world and yourself.

A hero one life, an adventurer the next. Sometimes a noble or a general, a leader or healer, some great scholar one life and a cunning warrior the next. You are a thousand different people, with a thousand different interests and ambitions and he falls in love with you all over again, gets to meet you and learn what you like and who you are, over and over, and if it didn’t hurt so much to feel apart (because he doesn’t tell you, he never does) then it would almost be like a dream.

A joy like no other – a chance to meet the love of his life for the first time, again. To _remember_ what it was, because no matter how different you are, it’s always like it was the first time, seeing that soul, and feeling drawn to see more of you.

One life he finds you are fascinated by the turn of the stars, and he gazes up at them alongside you wishing he could share his sight as he did before (he could, but he is a coward, he is afraid of breaking this illusion of his own making). One life you love to _move,_ to dance, and perhaps that’s what draws you to battle and adventure – how he dances with you, on the battlefield and outside of it. How he loves to move his body along with (against) yours.

One life you love to read. You read and read until you must know every word ever written, you’re the most eloquent person he’s ever met – he could talk to you for hours, that life, and not grow bored. Talking to you is always a pleasure, but in some lives you speak more, in some lives, less, but your silence has never bothered him.

Some lives you are silent. You don’t know what to say, or you have nothing to say, but he can read your expression, read your soul, he knows you far too well by then to mistake your silence for indifference. He coaxes you out, coaxes affection and bonding from you in ways that are comfortable for you, and finds himself delighted to be the object of your affections in new ways.

Always impressive, always surprising him, you are. The soul remembers what the mind forgets, what your body has not experienced but still echoes through you, echoes of the person, whole, who once you were. One moment, and then another, scattered throughout his lives, he could almost mistake you for your former self, you shine so bright.

He does not know why you fail to reach your full potential in some lives, but not others – though most of his guesses go naturally towards your upbringing, towards individuals who would never have been permitted to be parents in Amaurot – and in most cases, you grow some flavor of the person you once were.

His friend. His colleague and mentor. His lover.

Those lives he gives you – he loses _count_ of the things he gives you, he wants to give you. A quiet love, if you please it, but rarely do your better lives settle at goals so small. You are driven, even if you know not what for; there is desire in your, longing, for something _more,_ to reach greater heights within your life, your relationships, your skills and achievements.

Sympathy runs from him, unbidden; it is as if you know you are missing parts of your soul. He makes an offering of his own to fill those missing places, though you never understand, being Sundered (because he never tells you, never shows you), and all you know is that you feel _more_ when you are with him, feel _better._

(It is as it was in Amaurot, if not for him, then for you. You cannot offer him what he offers you, because he does not speak, does not hope, does not wish to have any more reminders about how you are just a _fragment,_ a _piece_ of the person he loves –

And oh, how he loves you still.)

Hades gives you everything. He gives you Empires carefully crafted to your liking, gives you the respect and awe of the masses, gives you all the wealth and status you could imagine – it is not enough, it could never be _enough,_ compared to what you deserve, and he cannot give you the sense of self-accomplishment, which he would not want to anyways.

Though you falter and stumble like any other, most lives you move forwards still, and he is always ready and willing to offer assistance and encouragement. He is the first to celebrate and praise your achievements, your foremost supporter and defender, the most stalwart believer (as if you are his god).

He serves you the world on a silver platter and much more. Learns your tastes all over again, and again, in each life different but strangely similar. Learns your tastes _in bed,_ what you like him to do, what you like to do to him.

Sometimes you are wary. Many times, he is your first (so rarely does he suffer another to touch you, after having seen you so horribly wounded, even in lives so different from your past). How he does enjoy the act of seducing you – of teaching you to enjoy yourself, slowly coaxing you to accept how you love his touch, how you delight in your shared union.

It's like the first time all over again, for him, and for you. Perhaps that is what he likes best about it.

He likes how you shy from him, seeing you try to hide your body; it warms his heart because he _knows_ what he can do about it. He _knows_ how to make you feel wanted, feel beautiful, he knows how to touch you and pull delights from your body that drown out all shame until it is well and truly washed away.

(He knows because he knows you, because it _is_ you, it is always you.)

From a blushing virgin to an open, unabashed lover, who enjoys his body and takes open pleasure in being touched, in being talked to and handled in ways you would never have imagined enjoying. From touching and handling _him_ in ways you would never have thought of.

It is a transformation of intimacy, of openness and honest appreciation of his flesh and your own. He watches you learn to celebrate your sexual desire, to make open requests of him you would have never dreamed of voicing. He watches you learn to bare yourself, take pride in yourself, shine in delight at how glorious, how _loved_ and _wanted_ he makes you feel.

Oh, he learns to please you in every way imaginable and many ways he had never dreamed. Ways you had never dreamed. Would never dream of asking from any but him. He relishes your trust, so carefully earned, so rightfully _deserved._

In each life you want him some different way, want some different part of him, for him to express his affection just so. Hades learns many things about love, from loving you, over and over.

He learns that it’s the same. Love is always the same.

It matters not what your preferences are, in every life he manages to satisfy. He needs only ask, speak his part and hear out yours, to craft an experience which pleases the both of you. Between ones as closely bonded as you, between ones as _devoted,_ taste is no obstacle – he can fulfill your every desire and more, if you will only open yourself to him, tell him what you want and how you feel.

He learns that he is loved in return. His own tastes, you inquire about, over and over. Honesty is his natural state, of course, but he never feels inclined to deny you, to turn away your curiosities and occasionally hesitant exploration of new territory.

The map of territory unexplored to him shrinks and shrinks over the years, with all the time you spend with him. Very quickly, he finds himself the more skilled of the two of you.

It is an irony to bring a smile to the face, truly. All his aura of competence and suave ability, all his power to please and how partners – disgusting, Sundered things – fell at his feel. And to think he has only ever had one lover. Not that he can tell you that, in many lives.

When you ask him what _he_ wishes to do, what would please him to do with you, or for you to do with him – he responds merely using his own knowledge of your likes and dislikes.

The truth is, his only taste is you. You’re the only flavor, the only color, the only life left in his heart, with all else gone (except for Him. Right?).

Every time he meets you, he falls in love again. How does one fall in love with someone they love already?

Hades doesn’t know, but he does it, the feeling comes again and again, the tug in his chest and the pain – _oh, the pain,_ the anguish that burns in his breast, as fresh as the day it was born with Zodiark and the deaths of half his people – it comes again, along with a flood greater still of that feeling, impossible and overwhelming and _elating._

The world is right again, even if it is broken; the colors not so wretched and sickly. Not with you there to see. He can even dispense small mercies upon the people – of Mhach, of Nym, of Allag, of whatever empire it is this time, whichever side of fool mortals he is playing with – as long as he sees you in all your glory and beauty of what humankind once was.

What humankind will be, once again. When the world is whole.

When you are whole.

But sundered still, he takes you into his arms once more.

And more, and more, and more.

Twelve thousand years have never gone by so quickly.

(Lahabera comes to him, once. Because he is the only other one who can understand, because Elidibus is distant, now, and cold, and almost frightening in how much of him is _gone._

They were never close, barely even friends, but Emet-Selch is the only thing that’s like Lahabrea remembers and the only one who _does_ remember outside the Emissary. Lahabrea comes to him, prideful and arrogant and swallowing it all down in the hopes of just a hint of companionship, of understanding, from the one man who might be able to grant it.

This rejection tastes bitter to him. Lahabrea is red, bright and blazing and _beautiful,_ it’s as vivid and proud a color as yours. His looks more like you than Igeyorhm’s did, really.

It’s bitter because this is real, what his not-quite-friend offers him. It is a real, true human connection with one of two complete souls in existence. He feels filthy for denying it, all in the name of chasing after mere _scraps._ He feels cruel for turning away the man so clearly absorbed, _consumed,_ irrevocably changed by his work, desperate enough to reach out, stubborn as he was.

He feels right, because Lahabrea is not you. Because Lahabrea has never approved of his pursuits with you, not in Amaurot, and not now.

Because Lahabrea had mocked you, scorned you, even if it had only been your fragment.

Later, Igeyorhm takes her place by Lahabrea’s side and Emet-Selch laughs at the irony. At last, the so-called Abyssal Celebrant is made to know humility – he is made to _settle_ for a fragmented soul.)

You are a Garlean, this time, and he does not like it, does not like these people. He is an Ascian, aether composes the entirety of his being, and Garleans cannot channel it.

Of course it does not matter. A handful of times, your life had ended before you even met. In all others, he had seen your life to completion, watching you grow old, pretending to grow old alongside you. What illnesses or maladies or injuries befell you he did not permit to steal you from him before your time, and when that time arrived, he withdrew to his grief, to wait again.

They must _notice_ he does it, Elidibus and Lahabrea – the others know naught of who you were before, could not recognize you any more than you could, them – but his efforts during your lifetimes with him are superb, and they permit him this indulgence, so long as he turns the world to their will. To His will.

So when you are Garlean, he goes forth to establish the Empire of Garlemald, composed of these magick-less brutes and pretend scholars picking away at Allag’s bones.

He arranges death, destitution, and disgrace for all your suitors, carefully aligns your path to collide with his, makes arrangements as he must. Establishing a sense of national pride, of racial purity is easy and makes for the perfect excuse to elevate your family’s status to ensure that you and he may be wed.

It's impatience – you are _here,_ you are _alive,_ finally, he’d had to wait so long this time (he thinks that every time) – that finally does him in. He arranges your marriage to him as soon as he has the influence and position to do so. You will dislike this, absolutely; no one likes having control taken away from them, and even in the environment you were raised, you would not have been _expecting_ to have so little power over your future.

And it is _you._ You are not one to accept such a decision being handed to you, not in all your myriad lives. Even at your most passive you would find ways to rebel or to reject the indignities forced upon you. Even when gritting your teeth and bearing them – always for the sake of others – you found a way to move past it, take life on your own terms, anyways, and make a life for yourself outside of it.

At least, until he comes and fixes it for you. He’s not in the habit of fixing all of your problems for you, in your every life, but he’s in love, he’s _so_ in love, and to see you struggling with powers past your control irks him like nothing else. He empowers you, or weakens your obstacles, encourages or advises you, whatever must be done for you to claw forth and win your own victories.

This is one victory he does not plan for you to win. Or rather, he plans to change your definition of ‘victory’. He is confident in his ability to be loved by you. In countless lifetimes, you have loved him. In almost every lifetime. He will grasp your heart in his hands with ease, knowing you as he does, and make you forget all about any reservations you may have had.

Whatever must be done, to earn your love and regard. However it must be done. He is ready to prove himself, to prove his affections, to prove his _devotion,_ in any way you might require. To express his feelings and their depth in whatever way you understand best. To form a connection with you however he must, however you and your temperament allow.

When he finally does meet you, he is prepared for the worst. Bitterness, dismissal, outright scorn. Rough edges to be ground out, trust to be earned and respect to be won.

He is not exactly wrong. But neither is he entirely correct, either.

Your circumstances make you reluctant to outright turn him away, and in this life, you are insightful and deliberate – clearly concerned for your family and any potential punishments or fallout that may result from your rejecting him. But neither do you accept him right away, and you certainly do not reach out to him past formalities, display a modicum of interest.

You are watching, waiting. Observing him and his attitude carefully, searching for any sign of vengefulness or short-temperedness. Evaluating a threat. Do you need to worry about his becoming violent, about his reacting badly to your disinterest? About his fondness wearing out and abandoning you for another (a laughable notion, but how could you know any better? He has not told you, has not shown you (yet)).

He hears about inquiries being made into his personal life, his love life, that he is proud to discover he is unable to trace back to you – a mark of subtlety and skill, on your part. In person you conduct yourself gracefully, but with measured caution, never coming off particularly strongly but still not so much as to appear completely disinterested. Probing him carefully, delicately, feeling him out with only the barest of tests and an intense, but hidden, scrutiny.

Your full attention is on him. Catching every detail, noting every motion and reaction; it’s thrilling, to be the object of your undivided attentions. He would not have it any other way – and nor would he have been able to tell you were measuring him so carefully, had he now known you so well.

Oh, how exciting it is, to subvert your expectations. You are expecting a political match, a racial purist, perhaps even a man consumed by a particular lust for your personal appearance. He is none of these things.

He is attentive. He is delicate and tender, reserved as you like while still being openly affectionate. Quickly he learns the ways in which you appreciate affection – small gestures; pulling out your chair for you, and pushing it in, opening doors for you, closing them after, bringing you small, thoughtful gifts and making gestures hand-crafted to your particular desires.

It is easy when he pays such close attention to you in return – every word you speak, every part of your life you mention, every absentminded sign of an interest in the arts or sciences or whatever else, he carefully notes and engages with you with. Soon he has you speaking at length about your interests, about your pastimes and hobbies, about everything you enjoy and love in your life.

You bond over a love of theatre, which he is delighted to see you share. He does not realize, but the way his eyes light up in genuine interest – it’s something you’ve never quite seen before, it flares brighter than his usual, all-consuming interest of everything that is _you,_ muted and ever-present, so strong it has simply become a part of him – moves you entirely.

So you tell him your favorite plays, your favorite parts and characters, and you find yourself excited, delighted, even, when he smiles and debates with you, shares his own tastes and for the first time you feel you are seeing _him._

He loves stories about heroes, especially tragic ones. The more painful the ending, the better. His special favorites follow unfortunate protagonists who cause nothing but disaster and suffering due to their ignorance, despite the best of intentions – heroes who eventually fall to despair, and make one last final stand to the death for some useless, principled stand that ultimately does nothing.

He doesn’t like romance and dramas at all. Calls them ‘unrealistic’. Laughs at them, at best, mocks each and every character, scorns them and their feelings. If only people would _speak_ to one another, be honest and open about their feelings and desires, so much of the plot would have been resolved. So useless, so pathetic – an insult to the word ‘love’, unworthy of being called such a thing. If they _really_ loved one another, their relationship would make each of them _stronger,_ not weaker.

Slowly but surely, as you fall for him, you understand what he means.

Soon he has you speaking to him near every day, a part of your daily routines, even. You talk about everything and nothing, stay abreast of one another’s troubles and efforts, encouraging one another through each, offering advice and comfort at every turn. He makes sure to compliment you, to distract you and make you smile and laugh with every conversation, every meeting.

He won’t have you upset or unhappy for the time you spend with him. He simply won’t. To have you associate him with business, or with your problems or sorting out your feelings – unacceptable. He will contain your life for you, but he must also uplift it, he must also make you happy, or else he has done nothing for you at all.

Nothing for you, like before. This life, he can make things easier for you. This life, he can return all the happiness you’ve given him (he can’t, not really, but he can _try_ ).

There is no joy left in this world like the feeling of seeing you smile. Like the sound of your laugh and teasing and embarrassed rebuttals. Oh, how he _loves_ you. To be with you is the highest elation, to be near you the warmth of the sun on his skin, to hear you speak the echo of memories unbounded, and to see you – to see _you_ –

Ah, how you look at him. You’ve fallen, now, and he knows he has you.

With great satisfaction does he seduce you – _so_ innocent in this life, taught so little about sex and the pleasures of the flesh, having heard the importance of virtue and chastity perpetually lauded over you.

Solus leads you to the bed and shows you pleasures such as you have never known. You are reluctant to bare yourself to him, so he works around it – clothing is only a physical barrier, after all, hardly a _real_ barrier to one as skilled as pleasing (you) as he.

He watches your veneer crumble under the pull of lust that has never touched you. New delight springing forth as you try to deny him, and when he withdraws, try futile to deny the pleasures he had brought you. And _oh,_ how he plays to that – baring himself carelessly, revealing his own pleasure, revealing just how _desperate_ and _ready_ he was for you –

Oh, how he loves watching your eyes brighten with desire and excitement. Feeling your pulse quicken as you shock yourself with your own debauchery. More and more pleasures he introduces to you, watching you pick up each one with caution. Watching you learn to _savor_ each one with delight. You descend into depravity with him and he is glad of it; glad not to be alone in his pursuits of these delights. Glad to be _touching_ you, to _be touched_ by you, in so many different ways.

And of course, he does wed you.

The ceremony is nothing short of a once in a lifetime ( _your_ lifetime, which is all that matters) celebration. Everyone is invited and everyone is delighted; it is beautiful, and elegant, bounty is shared and provided for all, merrymaking enforced. He fetches the finest entertainers, from his time as a patron of the arts. The finest of foods and wines for his beloved, every indulgence your heart desires.

Years pass. So, so quickly, they pass.

He runs away to play war, to lead conquering armies, and by all rights you and he should grow apart during that time, taking comfort in those around you. But he cannot stand for you to love another, and none of these wretched Sundered things will do, so he abuses his own powers to meet with you again, regularly.

There is no reasonable explanation. He does not offer one. You do not ask (maybe because you know, and maybe you’ve always known, deep down inside, in every life, that he will not tell you). But you do not grow apart. Nothing with make you grow apart.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder – Hades knows this to be true, he knows it well. But he’s grown too fond to wish that upon you, ever. To even _imagine_ that you experience this heartache and that he is _able_ to prevent it, but he does _not_ – it feels like sacrilege.

(Sacrilege against who? Who is his god now?)

Decades pass quickly because for all you do not know (that he does not tell you), you are _loved._ You are loved, and you are happy, and he puts the whole entirety of his being to keep you that way, to keep this _one_ precious creature in a world filled with disturbing, barely-alive mortals, to keep you happy and safe and hopeful.

And for a time, he is happy, too. For fleeting moments, when he can spend his time with _you,_ when he can bask in your presence and see how bright you have become, bathed in his affection and raised to glory and prominence at his side. Sometimes he can pretend he is really _with_ you, he can really, truly believe in your bond and in your love (as though there aren’t a million things he’s not telling you), and he is really, truly, satisfied.

You die. Two decades later, Solus zos Galvus approves of the Meteor Project, and five years later, after all his arrangements are made, he takes his rest.

He goes, willingly, thinking nothing of Hydaelyn’s new champion, carrying but a brief amusement that some brave little sundered mortal has managed to best Lahabrea – the Rejoinings will soon reach the tipping point.

If only you had lived a little longer. Twenty years is nothing to him and his, but it would have been; it might have been, just barely enough… _perhaps._

There is no use in wondering now. You will be reborn again anyways – mayhap even onto a world restored.

He goes to watch, and to wait. Staring away at the Underworld, waiting to see that color again.

Lahabrea dies, and with great reluctance does he answer Elidibus’s summons, a testament to the potential danger of the situation.

(He doesn’t know whether to feel glad he is still able to hurt, or ashamed that it has hurt him so much. Lahabrea is a man he will mock even after death but Emet-Selch would have never wished for it, _never,_ not that grouchy, arrogant, ultimately brilliant colleague of his who really was an avid and passionate scholar at heart, always eager and stoically concealing his delight in the pursuit of knowledge.)

On and on and _on_ does the man go, so deep his worry that even Emet-Selch finds himself… unsettled.

It makes sense that the people of this world have become something resembling formidable. There have been Rejoinings enough for it. But if you had lived –

If you are reborn, were reborn, during that time when he was unable to observe the Lifestream –

No. Twenty five years is a paltry amount. He does not recall a time when he did not wait at least one hundred. You will not enter this world again for some time. Longing fills him, more of your faces than he can count flash through his mind – the mask ever-clear, but somehow, your original face feels distant, lost, forgotten.

It matters not. He remembers your color still. Hades will chase your soul until the ends of the earth and far beyond.

With how the Rejoinings were proceeding – with how _close_ they were, one more and the balance would be tipped, He could awaken and set things to rights.

When He was returned, He would make everything whole again. He would make everyone whole again. Restore all that had been lost. For this does Hades rise once again as Emet-Selch, and resolve to accept his duties once more, despite your absence.

(And then, finally, does Elidibus come to him. Opening up to him only in this final hour of most desperate need. The Emissary is really, truly, beginning to fray; he has failed to defeat the Warrior of Light, even with Zenos’s body, he has closed off any future avenue of reconciliation with this new, powerful Ascian Slayer, he has failed to do anything more than be defeated.

The man is not accustomed to failure. Elidibus isn’t even accustomed to _trying._ Always about “balance”, always about “the right time” and “the right occasion”.

Much of his caution is warranted, but at the end of the day, what Elidibus most often does after he has gone and made his cautionary statements is _nothing._

That he is pushed to the extreme of doing battle for himself speaks volumes. Unlike what Elidibus says when he comes to Emet-Selch, when he comes to the last of the Unsundered besides himself, silently, wordlessly, reaching out with his aether. Providing comfort, reassurance.

He doesn’t ask but the desire is clearly there. As much as he intends to offer Emet-Selch of his aether and soul, he would have in return. A form of intimacy none of them have dreamed of since Amaurot. He doesn’t even know if Elidibus has ever _done_ it – if _any_ of the other members of the Convocation had done it, back in Amaurot.

Partners so close were hard to find. To bond one’s soul with another was no small act, with permanent effects. (How else could he have found you, over and over again?)

Emet-Selch turns him away. It is not amusing, not bitter. It’s just empty, blank, like that white soul and that indifferent face as his one and only equal in the world turns and teleports away.)

With great annoyance does Emet-Selch go to meet this so-called Warrior of Light who has been causing all this trouble.

He sees blue.

…After all this waiting, he’s finally found you.

“You would have me shed my preconceptions, hm? All I ask is you do the same, and I will accept you as my ally and companion.”

What is this? _What is this?_ He knows what you have done as the Warrior of Light, so why? Knowing he is an Ascian… He spies no trace of deception, no hint of a trap, but surely you have an ulterior motive?

“Come see me again, my new Ascian friend. I should like very much to learn of you, and to share of myself.”

Hades wants to cry, because this time it _isn’t_ him. It’s _you._ You make the first move, you reach out and tell him you want him.

After all this waiting, he doesn’t have to wait or search anymore. Now you are here.

Now it is _you._

More you than you have ever been – more brilliant and powerful and assured of it all. The legendary Fourteenth, first among equals. Brightest soul Amaurot had seen in a thousand generations.

It is you, you, you. The color is so pure, so bright. So unmistakable.

“I am what I choose to be. And right here and now, I choose to be with you.”

This is where he falls, isn’t it?

“For as long as you’ll have me, of course.”

_As though he would ever refuse._

(He falls.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it looks like "Saturday night" is gonna be around the time I do a weekly update... maybe. Ish. I still wish I could write smaller chapters but lately it's all been coming out like this so *shrug*. More for you guys, I guess?
> 
> Hope you enjoyed. Also, I have a chapter in the works I'm particularly invested in, but it's in a very different style. 1.5 POV, narrated by Emet to "you". For example: "I walk over to you, curious." Emet is narrating as "I" and "you" of course is the same as it's always been. I don't imagine I'll write any more chapters in this POV but this particular chapter I'm just kind of going with it. I know first person is off putting for people, and such a direct POV as 1.5 is probably doubly so... sorry, I guess XD It'll be an easy chapter to skip if you don't like it! 
> 
> But other things are in the works too anyways, like a continuation (sort of) of the "Apology" miniseries with a couple lighthearted chapters of Amaurot-Era Emet/WoL actually getting along, a couple kink chapters (if I ever get back into writing porn again lol), and probably an inevitable deeply emotional chapter along the lines of the last one. So uhm. Please Look Forward To It!
> 
> Also, the draft of this fic in my word doc broke 100,000 words today, so, something to celebrate! A lot to look forward to, indeed :D


	27. if if if

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a fantasy. It's a nightmare.
> 
> It's a nightmare. It's your nightmare. 
> 
> And it's all coming true.

The thoughts creep in, one by one.

Fear is in the air, in everyone’s dreams – night and day, suffusing the streets, the Capitol building, the podiums and offices and every other place you work.

This fear chokes creativity even as it draws the life from it, squeezes every last morsel of terror and pain, twists every vision to horror and despair.

The Sound hasn’t reached Amaurot, but the sound of it has, the knowledge, and the thought of it strangles the mind almost as much as the Sound itself. A power which wrested sanity, wrested control of one’s magics and brought every imagined nightmare to life in a way directed Creation was not able to replicate. Yet.

Lahabrea says it can be done – if it can be done under the influence of madness, then it can be done intentionally, in a guided fashion. This Creation that forced imagined monsters to life, bringing the most elaborate and complex fantasies into being – if it could be done unintentionally, it could be done on purpose. With purpose.

If these monsters which had barely been conceived of could be brought into being by the Sound – then surely, a more solidified, more mystical and glorious concept might be realized, as well.

It must be done. Only a miracle with save the world now – a work of magic on so great a scale, only a God would suffice. The star itself, the fabric of reality – such cosmic powers at work. The end approaches and there is no way out, no foe to slay; the enemy is all the world, falling apart around you.

They fear, they fear, and it stifles you all.

They fear the summoning will not work. Zodiark will not save them.

You fear He _will._

It is unspoken and implicit, already known and dreaded; the terrible truth that you know full well they intend to push from their minds until the very end. The amount of aether required for this project is immense. There is only one source for so much aether in such a short time you have remaining.

All Fourteen of you know from whence it must come. Those to whom the details of the plan have been made known are likewise aware, at least in part. Really, the whole of Amaurot braces itself; no one will be surprised when the final details are made public.

They fear and fear even now. They fear the end, the idea that there is nothing that can be done. They fear losing all control of their power, bringing monsters and yet greater horrors to life.

They should. It is what will happen. It has been documented, if only barely, from half-mad firsthand reports and distant but disturbed observations alike.

The Sound approaches. Reports, scarce and half-crazed, confirm that it is spreading, spreading, soon to come to Amaurot itself.

As fast as the preparations are going, the plan will not be workable until long past the Sound has reached the city. Perhaps a few hundred thousand will remain alive until the end – and half that number at least would be required for the summoning. If there were more time –

If there were more time, you would not be doing this. You would find something _better._

But there _isn’t_ any more time. There _are no alternatives._ It is this, or the end of the world. It is this plan or complete and utter annihilation. Reality itself would be undone, all of Creation would cease to be.

Zodiark is your one and only hope, the savior and great creation, the culmination of so many years of knowledge and research from the greatest minds Amaurot has had over long millennia of study and intellectual growth.

They fear it will not be enough.

But what if it is _too much?_

It comes to you, unbidden, undeniable, a thought as obtrusive as it is disturbing – or perhaps intrusive _because_ it is disturbing.

The Doom ahead, you know well. Nothingness, the end of all things; there is a comforting finality to it, a certainty. You will all die, but once the Sound had worked itself unto your souls, the world ripping itself to shreds…

By then, dying would be ideal. The kindest fate.

It is not a good fate, it is not what you want, but the outcome is clear, predictable.

This… Zodiark, this magic being used…

So highly in the realm of theory, so abstract and intimately entwined with Creation itself – not creation as in existence, but the very _law_ of Creation, of reality, which made imagined concepts possible to weave from aether. Darkness made manifest, a being a purest chaotic energy – _Creative_ energy.

To make such a thing – a _God_ in the truest sense, a being with the potential for infinite Creation and channeling of aether into any imagined reality, physical or aethereal or the laws of creation itself – and to give it a _soul –_

What… what would such a being _want?_

A being with the ability to freely alter reality in any way imaginable. Essentially a wish-granting machine of unlimited scope; no request would be too complex, no desire too far from the current reality, no idea too abstract or vague to be made real.

All it would need – all _He_ would need – would be aether. With enough aether anything, truly anything, would be within His power.

Composed of the souls of your people, the good and noble people of Amaurot, He will surely only want to do right by this star, protect the people living on it, and ensure its survival. He would not act to the detriment of others – surely, he would abide by the collective decision and the solution presented by the Convocation, as would the people of Amaurot.

He would use His power only when it was deemed appropriate, only when it was completely necessary. To take a soul as fuel for magic is a terrible thing, one you do only in extremity. But to imagine that He would be needed at all once the problem of the Doom itself was solved –

Surely, no such thing would come to pass. Once the Sound was halted, you would all simply begin to rebuild. Slow and arduous as the process may be, the land, the buildings, all of creation could be nursed back to health, had you only the patience to make it happen.

Half the people of Amaurot, offering up their souls in the name of salvation… such a thing would never _ever_ come to pass again. Not once Zodiark was summoned – He would _solve_ the problem, with half your people’s lives, He would make things _right_ again.

This one great act of compassion on the part of your people, and then no more. No more aether would be needed. No more wishes would need to be granted, no great alterations made to be reality once it had been fully repaired. Never again would souls need to be used as fuel for His power.

The Doom would be halted. All would be well. All would be fixed. As long as He could be summoned.

All would be well.

And if –

No. No, there is no use considering it. What would be the point of summoning such a God if He could not truly achieve your goal?

The theory is as sound as it is magnificent, the connections Lahabrea draws between aether and metaphysical laws, nothing short of spectacular, your use of the properties of aether under such concentrated, epic proportions unparalleled in its ingenuity, a stroke of genius on his behalf and insight on yours.

But _if –_

No, no, no. To even consider it – it _will work_ – it being, what if –

_if –_

_If_ the need _did_ arise… then there would be more volunteers. If there were not enough, then there would not be enough, anyways; it only meant the world had been Doomed from the start, and it is headed for that fate now, anyways, so for it to come to that, then nothing would have truly been lost.

Yes, nothing would be lost, even in that case. If _everyone_ had to be sacrificed, it mattered not what came of it; it would still be a kinder death than by the Sound, a kinder death than one without _hope._

That hope was crucial. Instrumental. Hades had been the one to design it. Someone had to channel all those souls, all that power, into the spell itself, while you and Lahabrea wove it. The logistics of how it could be done fell to him, as the one most experienced with the manipulation and composition of souls.

And even he struggles. You watch him struggle, and even so, surpass himself, to add his part to your one and only hope. So many souls coalesced in one being; aether on that scale had never been needed before. No loss of life on this level had ever even been conceived of, until this Sound came to be.

What… what would it _do_ to you all, having that much aether flowing through you? This great magick would need all of your focus, each one of you concentrating your utmost on your individual contributions to this Creation.

Igeyorhm and the power of the void, Emmerololth and the elemental aspect of Dark, Nabriales’s research into the fabric of reality and pocket universes, Emet-Selch’s concept of souls and willpower, Lahabrea’s theories on – on nearly everything, what form He should take, how His aether would be structured and behave, Elidibus would need to balance the creation to keep it from spiraling –

In the best of times, two intimately linked individuals – ones such as you and Hades, or you and Hythlodaeus, or _perhaps_ under great duress, the three of you together – who had shared aether, could pool their souls to produce a Creation influenced by both minds.

You, Hythlodaeus, and Hades together; that would have been extreme, but believable. Creations which had required four or five individuals, not to donate aether, but to hold separate aspects of the whole concept in their minds, were nearly unheard of.

This creation would have all Fourteen of you. Together, opening your minds and souls to one another to form the final Concept; opening yourselves to this vast pool of aether which made up half of humankind’s _souls –_

What would it do to _all of you?_ To summon Him? When the final concept had solidified in your minds, the fullness of it made manifest by that great sacrifice, the Dark given form? All that aether flowing through you, to become a god made in the image of your collective mind’s eyes.

What would it _do?_

You are holding back.

You are holding back, and he can tell. Hades can tell because how could he _not_ tell, how could he _possibly_ not notice, how his own partner’s soul had grown cold and distant.

But-!

Recently you had only been _more_ eager to share yourself with him, to indulge in his soul and aether. Not that you could be blamed at all; indeed, it was a welcome indulgence if ever there was one. Never had he been happier to provide than in this great hour of need – yours and his.

And yet when you join him in bed at night, after a long, long day of planning – finally commanded home by Elidibus, after he had practically forced Lahabrea to retire to his quarters – he feels no touch upon his soul. He reaches out to you, with hand and aether both, and yet feels only your body respond. Fingers twine with his, but there is no answering echo, no energy that rushes eager into him in return.

Such an intimacy as existed between bonded partners as you could never be forced, should never be _asked_ for, but still, he wonders. He holds you close and feels you _tremble_ for joy of it, shudder in his grasp at the feel of his warmth near you.

It’s not strange because you don’t want him. He could understand your not wanting him. It’s strange because you _do._

You touch him with more hunger than he had ever imagined your hands could hold. Deep breaths that sound more like you are gasping for air, clutching to him as though starved; fingers digging hard into the soft flesh of his body, as though you seek to posses him entirely, to hold him all in your hands, through this vessel.

And he lets you, of course he lets you, because he, too, is lonely. Starving. _Terrified._ He knows not why you will not open yourself to him, but this is all he will have from you, so he accepts it gladly. Opens his arms to take you in equal measure, to hold you back just as tightly. 

It is as though your soul is reaching out to him, closed off as it is. Muted and dull behind barriers of feigned indifference and distant behaviors. Your soul is shrouded, but he feels it reach out to him when you claw at his arms, his back; he feels it in forearms that tense. Tendons stretch bare against your skin, pale over robes you’d torn apart yourself, dull and cold with hours spend sitting at desks, drafting theories and concepts.

You stretch against him, and shudder and curl into him, bones digging in, muscles flexing as though for the first time, and he can almost _feel_ your ache, even without any shared aether.

Hades feels your soul still, wanting him. It gives him strength. With you, together, you will prevail.

You close yourself off to him, but he feels you all the same. You are with him. You are with him. And you will never leave.

It’s worse. It’s worse, and it will only _get_ worse, and worse, and **worse,** until –

You have to leave. You have to leave.

The Sound has come, to the steps of Amaurot – it is almost too late already. But there is no staying, you cannot _possibly_ stay, not with how it rings in your mind –

_What if? What if what if what if what if what if –_

That’s the worst part of it.

_What if – if if if –_

It goes on and on and _on,_ waiting, leaving it open for your own mind to pick up the thread of dread and terror. The awful predictions, the promise of nightmares and horror that awaited within your own imagination. The fear not of reality, not of immediate danger or loss, but of the future itself.

A fear that is infinite, unbounded in its capacity for destruction. _If_ Zodiark were to turn out – like you thought He might – and then _if_ it wasn’t enough _if_ more sacrifices – and the aether _if_ it changed you to channel it _if_ He changed you _if –_

There is no reason to expect this, no reason to imagine it, it is only _if if if_ a possibility, to be struck from your mind but if _if if_ just _if_ –

You need to leave. You need to leave.

These thoughts will not leave you and if you stay these thoughts will not leave Amaurot. _If_ you stay then the summoning will be irreversibly tainted, these thoughts in your mind cannot be allowed to spread, to be known, and certainly not to linger while you participate in the summoning itself.

There is no telling

_if if if, the line of thinking inserts itself into your mind, unwelcome, inviting you to imagine all sorts of horrors, all possibilities that might come **if if if** your worst fears are made reality by this SOUND _

what will come to be if _if if_ you stay.

You need to leave. You need to leave, now.

No one can know. _No one._

If anyone even suspects –

_if if if_

If you so much as _hint –_

_if if if_

“This is absurd! What are you _doing?_ Come back!”

Emet-Selch – no, _Hades_ – has chased you. Of course he has.

You’ve been drifting further and further apart. He could not have failed to notice. No matter how you’d tried to comfort yourself with him without opening up your soul, it just – the thoughts just – this _SOUND_ just would not go away, the sound of your own mind, your own curious prodding, _if, if, if –_

However dearly you wished for comfort, if another member of the Convocation were to harbor these doubts – if _if if_ it ran through their minds for even a second –

The entire process would be tainted. If even one of them harbored similar doubts, the Sound would latch on, resonate in every one of their souls, compound until it had swallowed them all, and your last hope, entirely. Every single fear you had – the fears you had _spread to their minds yourself!_ – would be made into reality! Zodiark would be summoned, but –

But –

You stop yourself, fingers biting hard into your own mind, teeth piercing through your lip, legs tensing as you stride forward. Anything, _anything_ to distract yourself.

The more you harbored these fears, the more you dwelt upon it, the surer it was that the Sound would seize control of you, weave this nightmare into the fabric of reality.

“Please! Stop, I need you – Amaurot needs you!”

He cannot believe that – you cannot _let him_ believe that. If _if if_ he does, then –

“No,” You say, in the cruelest, most dismissive voice you can manage. “You do not. Go kill half our race, Emet-Selch. I will have no part of it.”

If he hates you, you deserve it. Throwing this terrible reality in his face like that, condemning him for seizing – however humanely – the only chance your people had at survival, without presenting any alternative at all; how terribly high and mighty, how pretentious of you, to decry his solution as murder, when there were no other options left.

When this was a last resort beyond any other – measures that would not be taken under _any other circumstances, ever_ – when all thirteen of them were as tormented by the desperation of the situation, Hades more than anyone.

You hope he hates you.

(When Hydealyn ends your nightmare –

You’d thought, at least, if _they_ survived –

But the Convocation lingers, coalesces, rises, fragmented and broken as it was – as they all were –

And Hydaelyn resurrects you, an imperfect summoning, fragmented as you are. Without memory entirely.

Called forth to do battle with your closest and dearest friends, whom you had brought this fate upon in your fearfulness.

Your nightmare hasn’t ended. It’s only just begun.)

Emet-Selch finds you again, because of course he does. And with eyes like his –

(He never does manage to hate you, not even when Hydaelyn strikes out, when he meets you again, and all his dreams and nightmares have come true at once.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I written... sorta, kinda... _horror?_
> 
> Anyways, I'm out for break, so in theory I'd be writing more. Unfortunately, I hit peak writing motivation when I am in no position at all to write, and it decreases severely when I have more time to myself. We'll just have to see what I can get myself to do. I sure do hope I can get a lot done over break though, and maybe finally get ahead of updates so I can start writing plot-based stuff! Maybe... 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's a bit different but it's good to try different things, right? I'm thinking of just writing more smut for future chapters but I do have a lot of them drafted and it's really a matter of picking one and sticking with it. Future chapters are VERY unlikely to be as long as recent ones - this one was around 3k, and a much more realistic length goal for chapters in this series. There was a time I was trying to keep it to 2k per chapter, because I wanted to be able to be consistent with updates... *sigh*
> 
> Guess a writer's work can be very nebulous sometimes. This particular idea just really stood out to me recently and I felt like writing it... between finals and stuff, anyways. We'll have to see what ends up speaking to me next - especially with the holidays just around the corner, heh~


	28. Apology IV

Hades is skeptical when you first bring the idea up. But there’s a thrill he can’t deny in the idea of doing it in his office, in the office of _Emet-Selch,_ where he receives the occasional visitor and is accustomed to working diligently on papers and academic reports and the like.

It is novel, and interesting, he tells himself when he accepts it. A little break in work days which had started to drag on a bit, an opportunity for you to spend time together and for him to experience his normal workspace in a new light.

The thought of someone walking in on him during such an _intimate_ moment – with you under his desk, hidden from sight – and with his position, it would be someone of note, most likely another Convocation member –

How absolutely disgusted they would be. What they would _think_ of him, what they would say. At first, they might even be struck speechless, faces distorted in horror, ready to throw denigrations at him, as well they should.

Such an utterly inappropriate, depraved, _unseemly_ act to be caught in. The state of him, in such an intimate moment, perhaps at the height of his pleasure, his peak just within reach, biting his lips to hold back the moans he knows you mean to tear from his throat regardless – and then to hear the terrible, glorious sound of knocking, to be tugged into a new realm of excitement all together. On the precipice of pleasure and devastation both.

It has his heart _pounding_ before you even part his robes to draw him forth. Hard before you even touch him.

He doesn’t say it, you don’t say it, but you both know it anyways, innately, close as you are. His soul burns with a sort of pleased shame, the feeling of being known and understood so well that even his most unsavory and absurd of titillating fantasies you can guess with ease.

It goes unspoken – _it should have gone unspoken_ – that what was exciting about it was the element of _risk,_ and not the actual prospect of being walked in on.

Nonetheless, when the knock _does_ come you feel his legs that you had been leaning on jerk underneath you, his cock in your mouth twitch and his pulse flare with wild heat against your tongue.

Under the desk it’s a bit of a snug fit – but with his chair mostly pushed in, there is no chance of anyone noticing you, not unless they cross over to the other side of the desk entirely. You feel his hands jerk away from where they had been clamped over the end of the table, and settle over papers, that quickly shuffle as you bob off his cock.

You wait a moment, like that, because if the person enters there isn’t really a graceful escape, but Hades doesn’t reach down to signal you to stop or say anything.

“Come in.”

 _Well._ Never mind, then. Hades _did_ say something.

The door opens, and you wait for the one entering to announce themselves – but they do not, of course, because who would be approaching Emet-Selch’s personal office if they did not at least know the man already?

“Speaker,” His voice is almost amiable before you, low tones reverberating through his body, through the wet cock that’s bared to the air entirely now that you are no longer on it. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Someone who did now know Hades at all – and someone completely unfamiliar with the existence of sarcasm – might have even called his mood friendly. Lahabrea is neither.

“I have come to pick up your report on the incident in Anyder.” The sound of his speaking grows louder as he approaches, familiar and almost soothing to your ears; ever the orator, and a pleasure to listen to.

There must be some sort of gesture or soundless exchange between the men, because you hear the rustle of papers that must be the aforementioned report.

Hades still hasn’t done anything to you to indicate that you should stop, though obviously neither does – _can_ he encourage you to continue, with present company watching his movements.

How exciting. Your Hades does so _love_ to play games. It would be ungenerous not to oblige, no? To say nothing of the idea of lathering pleasure all over him from below, working him up, using each and every piece of intimate knowledge you had to bring him to the heights of ecstasy.

All while his _esteemed colleague_ watches, listens, mere paces away in the very same room. You could assault his senses, suck and trace and tease every ilm of him that you could reach, wring every onze of delight from his flesh, and still Hades would have to stay still and silent for it.

You set to work, lifting him just a bit with your hands to better fit his length back into your mouth, sliding your face forward and letting it fill your mouth as your hands worked over the base of him. Under your arms, his legs twitch at your sucking, and tense when you press the flat of your tongue over the head of his cock.

“Will that be all, speaker?” He sounds far too composed.

Lapping at him, you enjoy how his foot _jerks_ in pure frenetic energy, the beat of his heart almost audible with how closely the two of you were joined; feverish and welling into a hard, nervous excitement in his core. Thrilled and apprehensive and filled with dread –

And loving every second of it, by how his cock throbs on your throat, how he still has not bade you stop with aether or any number of your shared gestures.

“No.”

There’s a pause where Hades lets his breath still, a reaction you can see him show in the angling of his body, an appropriate response to a statement so blunt an unexpected. To say nothing of how you’d begun to twist your head from side to side, sucking as your tongue drags around him with the tilt of your head.

When he next speaks, his voice sounds almost strangled. “And what else would you have me do, then, _esteemed Lahabrea?”_

Frustration is clearly seeping through; where once there would have been dry wit, there is now blunt sarcasm. A twitching that goes down to his bones, now. So cute.

“I have word that our mutual acquaintance is about to put forth her new Creation to the Bureau.”

 _Mutual acquaintance –_ you can feel the arousal draw back from him, cold to the bite of shame and outrage both. An anger he allows to overtake him, because it makes much more sense to show that than to start clawing at his desk in ecstasy. Moaning at Lahabrea to _insult him more,_ put him down, mock him in front of you, his lover, even as you debase him with your control over his pleasure.

You’d learned very early in your relationship that shaming someone who grew aroused by the act of being shamed was an especially delicate dance. Hades would sooner _die_ than be intimate with Lahabrea, in any way, but the speaker did have a way with words and subtle insults, and with your mouth on him his arousal is inevitable and undeniable. It’s marvelously entertaining.

Not that Lahabrea would think so, too, if he knew.

The laugh that tries to erupt from you has you nearly choke over his cock, mouth and throat convulsing, and Hades’s legs _squirm_ the more for it.

“That news has already been delivered to me, Lahabrea.” Hades makes no secret of the venom in his voice, impatience coloring his movements as well as his words. _“In person.”_

His little ego trip is cute; delightful, even. As a reward, you wrap your hands around his cock, hard, and _twist,_ pressing into delicate skin as you do, bobbing forwards and letting your teeth just scrape the head of him, but pulling back as soon as you do to be just kissing it, though your hands remain tight as

“I see. You have amended your ways, I assume?” The speaker’s inquiry would normally be a bit much but given how he had witnessed your earlier… spat, it makes sense for him to be at least a bit curious.

Another time – _any_ other time – and Emet-Selch would be quite pleased to tell the man what he thought of his earlier disdain, deride his faithlessness, and finish off with a healthy insistence that Lahabrea keep this _curiosity_ out of his affairs –

But Emet-Selch is, frankly speaking, not at all there.

“Ah – yes. Quite.” He says, halting and breathy. His cock has been erect for a while, growing harder and harder in your hands. On your lips.

Lahabrea, predictably, does not take this as an answer.

“What did you think then,” He asks with absolutely no subtlety; your lips split in a smile. “Of your partner’s new Creation? It is soon to be submitted to the Bureau. I understand you and the Chief are personal friends.”

If Emet-Selch hopes to get him out of this room, he will need to endure this little interrogation. Satisfy Lahabrea’s demands well enough to avoid a lecture or scolding, which could take near an entire hour.

All while you teased and tortured him from underneath the desk, expertly hidden from sight. He must give no indication of his arousal, lest Lahabrea draw dire conclusions, and no indication of your presence, lest he embarrass the both of you in front of such an esteemed Convocation member.

Absolutely _delightful._ You’d have to thank Lahabrea later.

“Of her creation…?” Hades draws it out, uncertain, as your lips still over his cockhead.

There is no further prodding from Lahabrea; he’s stated his question, and expects an answer. Hades can’t avoid talking about it or draw Lahabrea into talking for him with the regular leading questions or cues of casual conversation. He is speaking to a master of rhetoric, who expects a detailed answer.

You know already his opinion, of course – after recent events you and him had spoken extensively, caught up, both in bed and outside of it, with sexual activities interspersed throughout, for the sake of release and intimacy both. You already know what he thinks, but there is some special pleasure in hearing your partner praise your work to a mutual colleague. Especially knowing that each of them held you in such high esteem.

“It is a… charming Creation indeed. Especially how it accounts for diversity in tastes – a mark of skill indeed, how she managed to create the underlying drink which could be flavored in myriad ways, while still retaining its unique effects. It is a rare Creator who puts so much thought into such things,” The note of pride in his voice heats you more than his length in front of you ever would, “And so imaginative. I would never have guessed the combinations she had in mind, but their appeal is undeniable.”

The question is, how to encourage him, and let him know you appreciate it? The more you take him towards the edge, the harder it will become for him to sing your praises… and the less attention you give him the more likely he is to think he is not pleasing you, and to try something different.

“Indeed,” Lahabrea acknowledges, and you can almost see the man nodding in that self-assured way of his. “The inventive approach to the actual substance was most inspired on her part. The heat of it to the senses is so unexpected, even when iced, utterly singular in its cloying flavor even outside the way it interacts with the senses, which is another stroke of genius all together.”

You swallow hard, unintentionally squeezing on his length and eliciting a pull from his hips that Lahabrea might just _barely_ miss, if he is not paying attention. 

That _Hades_ was going to be aroused during all this was a given. The whole point of this was to get him off, and now, to make a game of his restraint. To see how well he might hold back in the face of certain humiliation and disgrace – a prospect which, to him, is undoubtedly as thrilling as it is terrifying.

Only the reality of your own subsequent shame and the actual potential fallout stay his hand, but when the fallout means your ruin just as much as his, Hades needs no further incentive. But he will be desperately excited by it all the same, heart racing, blood pooling, sex twitching as every moment passes and every word is exchanged. Of course _Hades_ is enjoying this.

But _you…_

“Intelligent, affectionate, _and_ Creative.” Hades crows, absolutely shameless, “You know how lovely she is to be around, as well, no? Always offering unique insights and suggestions, an attentive listener and engaging to listen to. Her very company is _such_ a pleasure.”

The way he says the word ‘pleasure’ sends trills through your spine, and has you wondering how he expects to get that past Lahabrea… until you realize that to the speaker, it probably sounds like a taunt.

A small noise of agreement comes from him, regardless. “She is an exceptional person, but far more than mere company or conversation. Possessed of such a brilliant mind, I have found research and theorizing with her to be quite rewarding. Exchanging ideas, elaborating on insights, expressing concerns and opinions – so much more than mere pleasantries.”

But… hearing your lover speak so highly of you, brag over you – and then to hear Lahabrea, a man who so rarely said a kind word about another, shoot back with his own compliments –

…It’s getting hot under the desk. You shift a bit, your thighs rubbing together and bringing uncomfortable awareness to your lower half.

You’re sure he doesn’t actually let it show, but you can _feel_ Hades’s urge to grin when he catches your movement.

“You have the right of it, there.” The satisfied smugness that courses through his being is palpable, even as you bob over him to distract yourself, warm flesh sliding through your mouth, hot and eager. “I am blessed, indeed, to have such a person as my partner.”

Lahabrea scoffs. “’Tis well more than you are deserving of. We two are well aware that _she_ is better suited to a position on the Convocation than _you.”_

A gasp escapes you through your nose, but you hear Hades cover it up with a slide of his hands over some papers on the desk. He takes the opportunity to reach a hand down to his side, not grabbing at you, but clearly preparing for it.

His hand is probably close enough to feel the heat on your face. Perhaps with his cock on your tongue he can feel your own pulse racing away as surely as his, heart soaring at the sound of your praises being sung. You have to hold your legs still to stop them from squirming beneath you, an uncomfortable wetness pooling between them.

“Do you expect me to disagree?” Hades’s voice is filled with prideful challenge, “I am well aware of my partner’s talents. In fact, I _assure_ you, no one is more aware than I of just how incredible a person she is. I would be the first to recommend her, were it not for our relationship. And in all things, I would be the first to sing her praises.”

A throb, low and dull, builds in your lower half, and you dive further onto him, into him, to ignore it. Pressing your cheek to his robes in a vain attempt to cool them.

“And you, as well?” Lahabrea says coolly. “I had meant Igeyorhm and I. Seeing as we had a shared interest in her latest Creation. I suppose this makes three.”

Hades tenses beneath you and you fight the urge to giggle. There was a reason Lahabrea had been made the speaker, and despite working with the man in an official capacity, Hades never seemed to remember it.

“Good, then.” Hades isn’t scornful, exactly, because the pride is still there, and you know the shame of his behavior towards you in the past colors each world. “The _more_ , the _better_.”

 _That_ had been as clear a sigh as any. As well as his hand, before you; the fingers of it curl as if beckoning you in clear invitation. If Hades is going to go along with all of this, then so will you. And your original intentions had been _quite_ clear.

Over and over again, you bob on him, not letting it pop free from your mouth. You drag your tongue over him as you do, pressing it into different sides every time, letting him feel the drag of smooth, slicked muscle over him. Finally, you pull yourself nearly off it and grasp the saliva-slicked length of him with two hands, _squeezing,_ applying solid and firm pressure in just the way he knows you like it, sucking ever so lightly at the head.

It's enough to get him right there, especially after all your attentions from the day building up to this. He’s been waiting for so, so, long, and you had been _building_ and _building_ him up.

But you stop; you pull away from his cock, a short trail of saliva still hanging from your mouth to the head of it, hot and pulsing and so, so close.

Because your _Hades_ knows what he has to say, and he hasn’t said it.

“Please!” You hear above you, ground out, short and curt and just _barely_ not shouted.

“Pardon?” Lahabrea uses that word only out of sheer incredulity, and it cannot just be because of how he’d sounded.

The heat radiating from his body is palpable, and the flush that must be showing on his face by now; his cock is entirely red and feels every bit of it. He’s close, now, in so many ways – too many ways – and the thrill is enough to keep Hades of the very precipice, without you even touching him.

“Please… continue.”

You smile to yourself, leaning forward, lazily brushing the side of his cock with your cheek. That’s all well and good to say for _you,_ but Lahabrea wouldn’t buy it.

Now that you’re slightly within reach his hand sweeps into your hair, tugging you towards his length urgently. All you need to do is pull back; Hades can’t reach too far forward, otherwise someone will _see._

Still, he’d said please, and begging is begging, so you lick lazily at the side of his length, lapping gently at it, closing your mouth over the side and sucking just a bit. The delicate skin of it is absolutely _burning_ to your lips and tongue, throbbing with heat and desire.

“Continue with what?”

Hades groans and you’re sure he means to pass it off to the speaker as one of indignation. You can _hear_ Lahabrea radiating annoyance.

“Continue with your little interrogation. I know not what your designs are on my partner, nor why you are so offended by our relationship – but by all means, continue your little barbs towards me, and her by proxy for selecting me. It is ever so amusing, seeing you exult her intellect in one breath, and implying she is too incompetent to select an appropriate lover for herself in another.”

The hiss Lahabrea emits at the implication cuts through the air; even _you_ shudder a bit. And of course, every movement you make Hades is _intimately_ aware of, hard in your mouth as he is.

“How interesting, that after all you have done, you perceive that mine is the judgement which is flawed, and make assumptions from there, instead of accepting blame which you have already admitted to!” The speaker’s anger is real, you can tell. “I did not _imply_ anything, you wretch, and I do not need to – you make your petty aggression clear without prompting!”

Time to get things going. Especially now that Hades is getting himself all _worked up,_ trying to get the speaker out of here, as fast as possible.

“If naught remains for you to do in my office but insult me _,_ ” Hades spits, and the malice in his voice _just_ edges out the arousal, “Then – then consider yourself invited to leave _now_ , and save us both the trouble.”

How naughty of him. Taunting a coworker. Poor form, Hades. To say nothing of how his words caught at the way you flicked your tongue none too gently over the head of his length.

It makes sense, of course, he can’t come with Lahabrea here. There are few people in the world he wants to be around _less_ , and having an orgasm while a coworker was physically present, watching him – Hades is depraved, certainly, but he is not interested in anyone but you seeing him like that, not outside of the realm of fantasy.

There’s a rift between them that you are uncertain will _ever_ mend, but it is at least something you can help with. Lahabrea was mostly angry on your behalf, after all, and Hades has as of late been an affectionate and devoted partner, following through with every gesture of kindness and engaging in every conversation with zeal and genuine happiness, rekindling your relationship greatly.

…Though Hades’s attitude towards him left much to be desired. A door opening quick, then slamming behind him, confirms that he’d been goaded into leaving.

You’re actually a bit proud of Lahabrea. Leaving like that instead of sticking around to bicker and insult him. The speaker isn’t quite one to walk away from a fight, especially when he feels he is in the right – or his opponent is in the wrong.

But Lahabrea is not the focus of your attentions, now. No, your attentions are entirely reserve for the _esteemed_ Emet-Selch, squirming and twitching in his chair, hands reaching down to thread into your hair as his legs finally spread wide, free to knock against the sides of the desk as his hips tilt gently into you.

Humming as you suck over him, hard, letting your cheeks hollow against the sides of his cock as you continue sucking, the hardness in your mouth pressing all over as your tongue runs on and around it. Quickly you bob away, feeling how his cock just begins to twitch, and pull _just_ off enough to kiss the tip of his cock, fluttering your lips along his wet length, kissing open-mouthed, sucking with just the inkling of teeth to press into it, hardness against hardness.

Eager hands pull tight in your hair, a low _“Please,”_ pressing you forward, and he _has_ begged and he _is_ close so you take him back in your mouth again, sealing your lips hard over his head, pursing them against his skin in that deliciously tight way that always seems to squeeze the breath right out of him.

As soon as you move forward, lips dragging over his skin in a hard press, you can tell he is ready. His pants bleed into moans, small and low things that he tries to hold onto, bite and swallow down, but you don’t permit it, assaulting him with tongue and lips and teeth.

“I,” Hades is always so good for you, always mindful to warn in advance, “I am, going to…”

It trails off into a keening noise as his hands suddenly move forwards to press on the back of your head, desperate and wanting.

You wonder for a moment, if he’s been good enough to come in your mouth. His hand in your hair is vicelike in its grip, but he would not dream of holding you in place if you don’t want it.

His palm presses into your head, urging you forward, letting him slide deeper, tears budding at the corners. Though you _could_ pull back, the desperation of his hand clawing over your scalp, the pounding heartbeat and the tremors you feel wracking in his legs – Hades wants it, _bad,_ so, so bad.

He's not _really_ been good enough, but he’ll make it up to you later.

You reach your hand up to wrap around the base of his length, fingers just brushing against his balls. His legs tense even more at that, but when you _squeeze –_ tight and brief, a burst of sensation as you suck hard, you hear an involuntary noise, not nearly soft enough to be a sigh, erupt from his throat.

Release floods your mouth, and you dive forward just a bit more to ensure nothing is lost. It wouldn’t do to make a mess of his robes now, would it?

You pull away, wiping at your cheek with the sleeve of your robes when a hand stops you in your place, shoving the chair back and at the same time pulling you straight up into his lap, chest flush against his.

Predictably, he laps your face clean himself, taking a great pleasure in holding your face still by the chin when you shy away from him. He can wipe that smug look off his face; you’re not _embarrassed,_ it’s just… hot in here.

“Now, love,” Hades is grinning _wickedly,_ just as you knew he had wanted to, the terrible man, “It seems I have a favor to return, no?”

“You can return the favor _at home,_ Hades.”

“Oh?” For someone who complained as much as he did about Hythlodaeus’s teasing attitude, he certainly indulged in his fair share of it, when it suited him. “You seem to have had _quite_ the time here, though. One might even think you enjoyed it.”

“Home, Hades.”

“You are brilliant, you know. Brilliant and compassionate and filled with cleverness and insight. The most difficult part of it all was going along with your supposed absence. Every moment you spent below, I longed to touch you, hold you, kiss you.”

It would be flattering if it hadn’t been arousing, and if he hadn’t been _trying_ to arouse you with that sort of talk. You only huff as you try to stand, tugging him with you; he follows with a laugh, wrapping an arm around you and nuzzling his face into you affectionately.

“I still want to go home,” You say, and he begins walking to the door with you, a hand over your waist to both guide and steady. Squeezing your side in promise.

“Yes,” There’s far too much smugness in his tone, “I suppose you would, yes? With all that _bedroom_ talk earlier. To think Lahabrea would join in!”

“Don’t tease me,” Since when had _you_ become the grouchy one? Yes, since _he_ had gotten off, and _you_ were still waiting, impatiently, unfulfilled. “Or mayhap I should go hunt him down for some more hard-earned compliments.”

“You deserve each and every one of them.”

The throb in your legs beats faster, just for a moment, with the sincerity in his tone, heavy with affection and respect. “I said not to tease me!”

Hades lifts the corner of his lips in that half-smile you adore so much. “It is not teasing. Lahabrea certainly was not teasing.”

“He only said those things because he thought I was not there.”

“Yes, the old bastard always is so sparing with his praise.” There’s a twinkle in his eyes that sets your stomach fluttering. “Perhaps he’s encountered too many individuals like you.”

Smacking him on the shoulder, you make for the door, “I told you not to tease me.”

“And I told you,” His arm wraps around you, warm and solid, “I am not teasing. Every word I said, I meant. I always do.”

“I know.”

“Do you, truly?”

“I know, Hades.”

“I do not believe that you do.” He purrs, rich and heated, drawing shudders as it pours over you. “I believe I must… _convince_ you.”

The promise of further praise – with his hand which – speaks all too well of how exactly he means to convince you. It has your heart _pounding._

“We,” You assert, “Are going _home!”_

And he is going to attend to the mess growing in your lower half, the pulse that builds with every moment, wells up in your chest and heats your face. Makes your legs feel too light to walk on. You can _feel_ yourself leaking, and the lewdness of it is almost arousing in itself.

He sighs, still, as though greatly put upon. “Then home we shall go. That long-awaited fantasy of ravishing you on my desk shall have to wait.”

“It can wait forever! That table _cannot_ be comfortable to sit on. It is made of wood!”

“I could make arrangements, of course. Right now, even. It is not too late.”

 _“Home,_ Hades.”

His laugh is warm and soothing as his soul as you open the door to leave together. “As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So was there like
> 
> A person reading this fic who _wasn’t_ aware of my raging praise kink?
> 
> I have more of the exploits of these two in this timeline planned for this series, so I hope you enjoy! And the invention mentioned in this chapter is something I /also/ have hcs/etc. about, and I will write that series... eventually. It exists, and I have some of it drafted, so... eventually. 
> 
> Next chapter up, though, is going to be from 1.5 POV so like, might not be everyone's thing. It will, however, be posted within two weeks.


	29. Apology V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Humiliation kink in here, kiiinda like a dirty talk thing almost. Hinted Hyth/WoL/Emet triangulations going on, but Emet and WoL are in a committed relationship.

It is time for him to return the favor, and yet, somehow you feel… hesitant.

“Oh, _do you,_ now?” Indignation coats his voice, even as his eyes soften in understanding. “Well, what I prefer is not always what you prefer; I certainly do not mind being able to work on you in private, hearing _every_ little noise you have to give me.”

“Just…” You struggle to find words as heat finds your face from the memory; Hades, insufferable creature he is, notices with immediate satisfaction. “What happened last time with Lahabrea, I –”

“I will ensure that there are no unpleasant surprises,” He reassures, and before his assurance you do crumble. He would never lie to you.

That’s how you got here; sitting at Emet-Selch’s desk, in his office in the Capitol building, undergarments completely removed. Letting him part your legs from his place beneath the desk – a snug fit, you knew from experience – and curl his hands over your thighs.

He’s just settled beneath you, between your legs, hiking up your robes and baring your skin to the air, when the knock comes at the door.

“Come in.” A voice calls from below, flitting shock through you as the words hit your sex with his breaths.

You tense, arms grasping at the papers over the desk, then flying below as the door opened to yank at the man below you. Hades, for his part, merely leans in, painfully close to your growing arousal that leaks onto the chair.

“Hello, my friend.” Comes the voice like a smile; a presence you recognize instantly, warm and calming despite yourself.

Still, you lick your lips, “Why are you here?”

A better question would be, why ask, when you did not want the answer?

Hythlodaeus’s smile is as amiable as ever, a warm curve of lips that relaxes with an easy grace. And then he opens his mouth. “You are looking particularly lovely today. Your hair is absolutely stunning – the way it catches the light – and so well kept, too. Lovely.”

What. “Pardon me?” You have to stop yourself from throwing your hood back up, covering your hair again; an indulgence you’d partaken in because you were _not going to be interrupted._

“Of course, your appearance is nothing compared to your personality,” He continues, and you feel a wet lick on the inside of your thigh – Hades bears down on it in an open-mouthed kiss, trailing upwards – and you curl your hands for strength, “You are also brilliantly intelligent. Do you have any _idea_ how excited I am to try out your new Creation?”

“Ah,” As soon as the thanks rise on your lips, along with the heat in your cheeks, your suspicions draw together. “Why are you here, Hyth?”

“Cannot I simply stop by to visit one of my closest friends?” You want to slap that smile off his face. “Of course, I did not expect _you_ to be here instead of Hades, but any time is a good time to let my most charming and brilliant friend know how amazing she is.”

Your legs twitch, and you’re sure Hades below can feel your sex twitching against his mouth. The pulse that draws through it as your heart pounds away, the rush pouring through you as you fight the high, each word pulling you up, filling your chest with warm that builds and pools in your lower half. As teasing as Hyth may be, his words are filled with sincerity and pride, genuine appreciation for you and respect – awe, even – for your talents.

You feel like _squirming_ and you know Hyth can see it, as well as Hades can feel it. It takes active effort to keep your breaths steady, to keep yourself from panting. You can _feel_ his smugness radiating without even seeing the man.

“Just answer the question.” Grinding it out, you try to squeeze your legs around Hades. He only hums against you, and your heart skips a beat at the threat of noise, but…

“Hades instructed me to come here,” Hythlodaeus chirps with that absolutely disgusting good cheer and sweet demeanor, “And let you know what I think of you.”

“He did _what?”_ Clenching your hands harder on his hair, you can _feel_ his urge to chuckle – but he only laps over your folds, and you have to press your arms down to keep them from moving, leaning forward even further.

Hyth blinks at you, “Ah. ‘Tis one of your strange little games, no?”

Outrage and disbelief come flooding in. If Hades has specifically _invited_ your mutual friend to participate without telling him exactly what he was getting into, you’re going to wring his neck.

“Your shared _carnal delights?”_ The prod erases your anger, along with the teasing tone and the near leer of your friend as he examines your expression. At least Hades had not been so thoughtless as to drag Hyth into this without his knowledge.

…You’re still going to wring his neck.

“He… he _is_ under the table, yes?”

“Could you at least _pretend_ to entertain the notion that this is happening surreptitiously?” You thread your hands through his hair, petting it as you pull away.

Hades takes this as his cue to suck freely – a small slurping noise you’re not sure Hyth can hear, but you feel in excruciating detail, delicate flesh being drawn into his mouth, along lips slick with saliva, pursing and kneading.

It's all you can do to reduce your noises to low, bare grunts that could pass for conversational cues.

Hyth makes a small noise of consideration. “Under the table, out of sight… being stimulated while someone observes, ignorant of the fact… being brought to release, even. It _is_ quite the titillating prospect.”

“Shall I set you up with Lahabrea?” You deadpan.

For all his diligent control, Hades’s mouth twitches over your sex in what would have been a laugh – or a chuckle – and your ankles _twist,_ fingers curling in his hair tight enough to hurt. Just how he likes it.

Blanching in front of you, Hyth holds his hands up by his head in a gesture of mock surrender. “You and he were working closely before, and the speaker _is_ quite a catch, but I am not quite certain I would prefer to see _him_ like this.”

You nearly choke at the implication. So much for your composure. Letting your head fall forwards, flush to the table, you finally give up and stretch your arms out against it, grasping as you can. Spitefully hoping you muss up something important.

“You should have come in instead of him, last time,” At the mention of it, Hades frowns – except his mouth is quite occupied, so hips lips merely squeeze about your folds, tightening over the pulse, tongue lapping at what he’d taken in his mouth.

For it, you inhale shakily, but continue speaking, “You could have compared our performances.”

“Oh, do not give up now!” There’s an odd encouragement to his tone, flighty and warm, but somehow probing. “Hades can certainly do better than this. Are you going to let him get away with it?”

Beneath you, Hades’s mouth stops working over your sex. Stilling.

You lick your lips.

“I was always under the impression that it was you who… _led,_ in the relationship.” Hyth admits, and a smile curls up on the edges of your face, heat in your chest twisting into wicked desire.

It always does surprise you, when things like this happen. Hades has a remarkable talent for planning and plotting and manipulating, getting every piece _just_ exactly into position, controlling how events play out perfectly, cornering his opponent quite thoroughly… only for it to all fall down around him in the worst way possible.

The tip of his tongue just grazes your clit, and it tells you more than words ever could. Even though you nearly jump at the sensation – Hyth is _watching,_ he can see your every movement, hear you whine softly as Hades draws his tongue back too fast – it’s time to assert yourself.

He swirls around your clit, after, too far away and too light in touch to really stimulate. He thinks he can still tease, now?

This isn’t entertaining in the least. You dig your hands harder in Hades’s hair and tug him forward into your sex, forcing him closer, nearly dragging him where you want by the hair. He invited Hyth to see this – or at least listen to it? Then you’d give Hyth a show.

“Faster, _slut.”_ You say lowly, watching Hyth’s eyes widen at the crude appellation. "You can do better than this, I know."

Hearing Hades suck in a deep breath through his nose – as much as he was able to with you pulling him in.

“Surprised?” With no small effort, you lean back in the chair, letting your legs widen as you do.

It gives Hades more leverage, lets him delve deeper; tongue writhing over your folds, pressing his mouth into your sex and turning his head to the side to get deeper, to angle more sharply into this one crevice, and then another. Soft hair brushing against your skin as he moves.

Licking your lips again, you meet Hyth’s gaze. “What, he told you to come, but he did not tell you what sort of thing he likes?”

There’s a chiding in your voice that makes Hades’s hands tighten on your thighs, clenching and kneading into muscle with a delightful strength, a relieving pain that releases tension. His efforts redouble, pressing his tongue hard into your sex, dragging it along, coaxing pleasure from your slickened folds.

You click your tongue. Really, there is no way for him to lose. Either you humiliate him more, just like he likes, telling his friend all his shameful delights, or he wins and reduces you to a moaning mess, forcing you to send Hyth away and fall apart above him on his desk.

As if you would allow it. Though when you feel him stroke at one particular spot, gliding easily and with a purposeful drag, desire tugs heavily at you. An acute awareness of the pleasure so very near, so very close, if only you would give him the command. His victory so close at hand and Hades does not falter for a moment, even as he worries over your labia with his lips.

Hyth’s lips open, wedged apart for a moment in blessed speechlessness. But nothing lasts forever.

“And do you also like…?”

A wicked grin tells more than you ever could. But he only laughs, well enough, and you can tell that has Hades wavering, tongue stroking in slower motions until you pinch your nails into him in warning.

“Who would have thought?” Hyth says, and you’re sure he’s winking under the mask, “Our own Emet-Selch, a depraved lecher in the sheets. Or under the table, rather – and his own, too. A misuse and disgrace of the office.”

“Careful now,” Your grin nearly breaks your face, and you fight the urge to chuckle maniacally. “You might make this all the _harder_ for him, with that sort of talk.”

An exaggeration. Hades, of course, is hard already. Nothing makes him harder than tasting you, feeling your arousal out with his mouth and hearing you talk – hearing you mock him. Fingertips dig into your thighs, clinging, trembling.

“He’s rather easy, you see,” You purr, brushing your hands through his hair, petting over him encouragingly as he sucks over your clit in return, making your toes curl. “A sloppy whore.”

Hesitance on your friend’s face is finally overcome by curiosity. “So you do enjoy him like this?”

You dig your hands into his scalp. “Who wouldn't? He is _such_ a fun little thing. A useful toy. Always willing and eager – desperate, even – to do things like this to get his thrill. People who are lazy do not _like_ being lazy, you know.”

Each further phrase has him shuddering beneath you. Lips pursing over your folds, tongue twirling in frenetic eagerness, sucking _harder,_ tasting and delving more deeply still. Gentle pants of breath heavenly on your hot and saliva-slicked flesh.

“He… certainly spends quite a fair while napping, if that is true.” It’s fair to say Hyth probably has a hard time imagining Hades as passionate about _anything._

Hyth’s stare is all the heavier when you feel it on your mouth, fixed on your tongue as it darts out to wet your lips. “Slackers tend to find it terribly fun and invigorating when they finally have something they can truly throw themselves into. And Hades in particular – well, he just loves to be _pushed._ Invites it, even.”

The shudder you feel go through him as you push him into yourself to match your words – well, there is a reason you like to push him, so.

“That puts quite a few of his habits in a different light.” You don’t miss the humor in Hyth’s tone, “Keep him on a leash, will you? He certainly loves to _invite_ those around him to push him.”

All you do is laugh.

“Did you hear that, Hades?” You ask lightly, petting his hair gently again. Even when you leave off pressure, Hades is pressed into you, lapping and licking and sucking away. “He thinks you’re a whore, too.”

Hades pauses a moment, then purses his lips over your clit and sucks _hard._ When you jolt in the chair, ruffling the desk, he lets up, and swirls his tongue around it in warning, electric over the sensitive swell of it, before dipping it back into your folds.

You suppose you did deserve that one.

“Whatever he is,” You say, stroking lightly over his head, “He is all mine, and mine alone.”

“A shame,” Despite being in the room, Hyth’s voice somehow sounds far away; you feel the need to close your eyes and open them again, to focus. “I might join in, otherwise.”

Lips twitch. “If I am what you want, perhaps. But _this_ mouth,” You spread your legs wide, intentionally hitting the sides of the desk, “Is for me, and only me. Maybe he could watch, though, if he were good. You do so _love_ to watch, don’t you, _Emet-Selch?”_

The light moan you feel on your sex sends tremors through you, and you have to take a long, deep breath. 

“If _you_ are what I want, you say.” Hyth almost sounds like he means it, and for a moment, you’re not sure –

Hades tenses beneath you, too, pressing his mouth hard into your sex, leaning his head into your thigh. Bearing into you, as though he can merge your flesh as you so often merge your aether. Burying himself into you.

Eyes narrowing, you ask, “He and I – we are not – ”

He holds up a hand in a gesture of dismissal, but between the mouth that works you from below – the pleasure it sparks that flits with the fluttering nervousness in your belly, and the rising anxiety which fills you with a restless energy, you almost do not catch it.

“Think nothing of it, my friend. I am merely teasing.” With Hades tugging at your aether like a child desperate for attention, hands clinging hard over your thighs, you cannot listen closely enough to tell how truly he means it.

Hythlodaeus does often tease. But neither does he often say things entirely in vain.

“I would not lay hands upon anyone else,” You near murmur as you feel Hades suck at you more, lathering attention over your clit, kissing sweetly enough to make your legs twitch in the desire to wrap around him, “And of course, neither would he. It is only talk.”

“Yes, of course,” Hyth says, and were you not struggling to not crumble where you sat you might have caught notes of – notes of _what?_ “I mean naught by it. Seeing as things are picking up, would you prefer for me to leave?”

Every fiber of your being demands your denial – you will _not_ be bested here, not by him, when he had withstood your assault before Lahabrea, without the man even knowing. Despite the poor show he had made of it, he _had_ maintained the façade well enough.

…Well enough for Lahabrea to be noticeably cross, afterwards. In any case, however much you want Hyth _out of here_ so you can throw this damnable chair back and spread your legs wider still to press him harder into you, moan freely about how terribly sweet his mouth was, now that it was filled with your –

“Picking up?” You grind out instead, drawing your hands forward, smoothing over lovely, soft hair to press at the flushed skin of his cheeks, slick with more than sweat.

His grin is one you suspect Hades might be giving you, were his face visible. “Blushing, strained. The sweat on your brow and the fierce look in your eye, as though you are dealing with a particularly… _stubborn_ concept, which refuses to bend to your will.”

Beneath your fingers, Hades’s face blooms into familiar amusement, cheeks warming to your fingertips in delight, rumbles of amusement trembling through him. Through his tongue which dips in and out of your entrance, slick against the delicate flesh as he circles it, digs into it, and finally flicks it out and up, towards your clit.

“ _Stubborn_ is a bit generous,” Spark alight in your lower half, heat bursting into long-awaited fulfillment as he edges you, but you hold back even as you hold the table, hold _yourself,_ “Whore is not an entirely incorrect appellation for someone who spends so much of his time _teasing.”_

“That was _teasing?”_ Hyth sounds genuinely surprised and for a moment you pity his partner, before remembering he has had none.

You want to lean back, yank Hades in by the hair and pretend he’s not grinning against your cunt by forcing him to make you come, again, and again, and _again._ You want to hiss at him to press his tongue into your clit already, set alight the flames of lust so you can feel the high burst into your being, euphoric and radiant.

But…

“I’m not going to,” The admission chokes at your throat as soon as it rises, you look away, eyes fixed on the desk, on your fingers that dance and curl with the dance of Hades’s tongue over you, “I’m not going to come while you’re here.”

The feeling of rush and vulnerability you would share with him and him alone; the fruits of his devotion and how he had worked you, on his knees, were for him to savor. With another person there, it would be – you simply could not _let go_ like that, not in the presence of someone who had not known you intimately.

You see his lips twitch. “So what you mean is, if I _do not_ leave…?”

For the love of –

Pulling from your sex in a loss of sensation that leaves you shocked and aching, if only for a moment, Hades growls. **“Go.”**

There’s a deepness to his voice, a low tone that nearly rasps against your folds, that fills the room in a way it has no right to, with him in the position he was in. Half-familiar, even, possessed of an echo of terrible power unique to Hades in all the world.

Hythlodaeus nods, respectfully, the smile still dancing about his lips, and turned to leave. Naturally, he quips on his way out, “Enjoy yourselves!”

And Hades snickers at it, vibrating further against your folds when you are already _so close,_ the wretch.

He had conceded, on your behalf. Sending Hyth away so that you did not have to admit defeat. Or more likely, because he had grown tired of _your_ stubbornness and wanted to see you fall apart, already; you had personally never been too interested in having another present, so it is not surprising Hades would extract you from this situation himself.

His work begins in earnest, and you are made to understand _intimately_ just how talented Emet-Selch’s tongue really was. He could give the speaker a run –

A press by your clit, tongue delving deep into your flesh as he lets out a hum – one that comes out nearly as a moan – drags your focus back. To him.

Fighting the urge to fall forward, panting and whimpering, you instead lean back, pressing _hard_ against the chair at your back. Your hands bury themselves in his hair and twist – he’s already as far into you as he’s going to get, but he moans more at the sensation, sending tremors through you that shake loose sparks of pleasure, tense you into tight, desperate need.

“Hades…” You say, between open-mouthed pants, struggling to maintain your grip in his hair as desire wracks through you, pulls your tendons taut and then loose, the rest of your body fading from awareness as your mounting lust consumes you.

The sound of your voice consumes him as well; and Hades consumes you like a man possessed.

He’s lapping by your clit in the most perfect way, drawing his tongue into the sensation just to the point of pain, where he edges off and laps away again. Your whole world is reduced to this moment, this sensation, where his mouth and tongue worship you, draw you ever closer to your climax with delicious touches that work you into a need you could have never imagined possible.

Before you can pull him down harder, you feel his fingers draw over your thigh and in, tracing over your sex and catching on the slickness of it. You can just _barely_ feel him rub, with the pulsing that’s growing below, tugging and pulling, a dam about to burst –

And a finger is inside you, sliding so easily you almost don’t feel it. You’re so wet it’s barely there at all, but he curls it, tugging, even as his licks grow faster, pressing harder against your swollen flesh that pounds with your heartbeat that you can feel throughout every crevice and fold of flesh below.

He curls it, pressing into that spot near the front of your wall as his tongue slathers away over you, and you feel it _press,_ the point of tense desire burning hotter than ever. Whimpers that you barely remember fall from your lips, low and glasslike, sounding desperate enough that you might have been ashamed, or he smug – had lust not had its claws well and deep in the both of you.

At last, you feel the tip of his tongue, making tiny kitten licks that slowly elongate, just brushing against your clit at first, and then prodding, pushing, _pressing._ The hard point of pleasure swells and presses from within, and you have to fight, trembling, not to flinch away from the sensation – not that Hades would have let you go, anyways.

The pull is unmistakable, the knot of desire within you just beginning to bud as you feel yourself tense and clench around his fingers, your clit white-hot instead of buzzing at his touch.

“ _Hades,”_ His name from your lips is the most natural thing in the world, and for a brief moment your climax is interrupted with the rush of purest emotion, all tied to that name, of that one soul, _“Hades!”_

The smile he must have been sporting, earlier. His eyes, bright and gold and filled with wicked eagerness and laughter. That beautiful, angular face you so loved to look upon, warm and sinful with flushed arousal that the promise of fulfillment. The voice you had just barely heard before, teasing and encouraging, taunting and challenging, delighted and affectionate.

 _“I love you,”_ Just breaks out in a whisper, as the flood overwhelms you still, euphoria blooming from your lower half and inundating you as your pleasure reaches its height.

Hades pushes your chair back, and you lay there, limp with pleasure and the warm haze of satisfaction, lax against the chair as he lifts you up, settles you on his lap.

You just barely have the energy to glance at the door and work up a bit of worry, muted underneath the warmth that permeates your body. “The door…”

“Locked,” Nuzzling his face into your neck, slick with your own release as much as his own saliva, you feel him press a long kiss to your pulse. “No further interruptions.”

For a few moments you rest there, like that. He wraps his arms around you, settles you into comfort against him, shifts and adjusts your legs just so. Whispers comforts and praises and little sweet endearments to you sweat-dewed skin, a rumble of a purr as he feels you lean into him.

Lolling your neck to the side, you bare it for his further perusal as his hands wander under your robes. Soft, smooth caresses that dance and knead over flesh tense and wound up from arousal, worked into warmth and malleability by your release. And his hands on you are _heavenly –_ you let him with a moan or two as he roams, massaging and cupping and soothing over your body he had neglected entirely in the pursuit of arousal.

Even when he smirks against your shoulder, you let him have it, feel the excitement in his arms as they shift over you, tender touches erratic, even in their gentleness. You feel the excitement in his cheek he presses into your skin, dragging himself along your neck as his hands on your body, kissing and licking and coyly nipping all along the way.

The heat of satisfaction still radiates out, soothing tired limbs and softening panting breaths as your heartbeat slows. You bask there, in the warmth of your afterglow and of Hades’s affection, poured over you like chilled water over hot, aching muscles.

Energizing you. Stoking life back into your chest, giving you the strength to lift your arms and lay them over his, grasping. It’s a bit longer before his attentions pick up, press harder, send you twitching and squirming in response until, finally, you regain yourself and sit up, spinning around to face him.

He is, of course, still smirking. But when you watch his tongue dart out to wet his lips as he leans in, features wide with unrestrained lust and desire, the heat in your lower half blooms and you reach out to pull him towards you.

“Well,” You say, “I do recall some mention of a certain fantasy involving this very table...”

Oh, how you’d missed watching those bright gold eyes lighting up at you.

No matter. You have plenty of time to watch them, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I feel good about this chapter, it's why I really try not to let chapters take this long, because I start having it in my head too much. I feel like I'm repeating myself all the time, I start to not like the words because I've read them a million times, it feels old and stale, etc. The only solution is to keep heading forwards, finish up this chapter and get crackin' on a new one. 
> 
> I've said this /several/ times but I would like to get back into regular updates; we'll have to see if I actually can, however, because I have picked up some other projects that I'm really excited to work on, too. Maybe shorter chapters, more vignettes, etc. and then a longer chapter like this every once in a while. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Also... can you believe there are people who call "Hythlodaeus" _"Daeus"?_ Instead of "Hyth"? I guess, depending on how you say Hyth, it makes more sense, but... _"Daeus"_. Lol.


	30. Apology VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex pollen... sort of. It's more of an aphrodisiac and the characters involved use it with full knowledge of what it will do with them explicitly because they want that. Also aether tentacle... stuff.

As soon as you get home, you know something is wrong.

It’s a bit of a foregone conclusion, honestly. The sight of the esteemed Emet-Selch – having skipped the Convocation meeting today, quite scandalous – stretched out on your couch, fully in the nude, would be surprising enough in itself.

The sticky mess he’d made of himself leaves no doubt as to his recent activities. Release spilled all over his abdomen, sleek and muscled and shining along with the sweat dewed on his heaving chest. His legs spread wide enough that you could clearly see how his hand wrapped about his cock, stroking it once more to hardness.

Hades’s mouth is open wide, lips glistening with saliva as he pants, cheeks flushed, eyes glazed over in lustful desire. White hair spread about him like a halo, fine, angular features painted in ecstasy – in _need._ When his eyes meet yours, they glow gold with a hunger that strikes you to your core.

On the floor, scattered petals. They shimmer with a bit of iridescence that you instantly recognize. Unnatural, Created, beautiful; and by the color and scent they are marked as a _particular_ concept – one intended for bonded partners.

It’s well known that some individuals don’t experience a physiological drive for sex. Arousal and excitement, along with the helpful lubricating and stimulation associated with them, can be difficult to come across. Flowers and other Creations such as these could imbue such individuals with the physical and even the mental sensation of such arousal – and also, naturally, further enhanced the desires of individuals who normally experienced such things.

Why Hades thought he needed it was anyone’s guess – he’d certainly never had any trouble _getting himself ready_ before.

“Hades, love,” You casually begin as you walk away to set your things down on a nearby table, “I didn’t know you were partial to such things. What was it that got you into that particular concept this afternoon?”

He’s well beyond speaking, of course. He only manages a strangled moan. There’s a shifting noise that might be him squirming a bit on the couch, a sound that’s _definitely_ his arm clasping onto the back of the couch to try and pull himself up – more strangled moaning and shifting.

You turn around to see him curled in on himself, panting, his hand just cupping the underside of his cock. Hard and red, swollen at the tip; really, it almost looks painful. How many times had he come before you got here? If he had gotten into the pollen this morning, it would explain why he hadn’t been at the meeting.

“Come,” He manages between gulping breathes, even throwing an arm out to gesture, though you are well far away for that, “Come here.”

Leaning back on the table, casually, not missing how his gaze remains fixed on you, you say, “I think you’ve come enough for both of us, _esteemed_ Emet-Selch. How diligent of you to do my part as well!”

The noise he makes is something like a strangled sob – he jerks towards you, falling so he is on his hands and knees, face hanging down, white locks around it, until he raises pleading eyes to meet you. Cock dangling between his legs with his movement.

“I’ve been coming for you for _hours,_ ” He hisses, but his voice soon wilts into a low whine, “Pray return the favor.”

“ _For me,_ you say. You certainly didn’t come to today’s meeting,” You remark dryly, crossing your arms.

“Come heeeeeere,” That’s about as much as he can manage to speak, crawling forwards and quickly falling to his side, head just past the end of the couch, arm outstretched. You watch his leg kick and jerk as he moans futilely, punctuated by heavy pants.

The pollen is clearly still around. If you do approach, you’ll be affected, as well, and it’s obviously one of the stronger varieties. “I am content where I am, thank you.”

You turn around, “If anyone should be coming anywhere, you should get away from that pollen and come review the notes from the meeting you _skipped_ in order to…” Resisting the urge to turn around and give him a pointed look – he’s far too enrapturing, at the moment – you settle on a soft scoff.

Something brushes – well, brushes is hardly the word for it, it’s sleek and smooth and feels distinctly like _him,_ how his smile tugs at your chest and his voice grips your attention. You look down to notice a tendril of aether – not the faint wisp of magic reaching out but a solid manifestation, thick and tactile with the smooth bend of flesh against your hands.

“There,” Hades’s voice sounds like breath in your ears, amplified by his aether running over you, “I’ve come to you. Now _come for me-_ ”

There’s a knock at the door. And while you do love him – and the image he presents, panting and needy and reaching out in every way he can, so eager for touch, to lean into your contact – it would be poor form to give him everything he wanted right away. Especially after his skipping the meeting.

“Hades,” You say lowly, feeling a thick branch of aether wind around your torso, “I am answering the door.”

The way the tip presses, curling its whole self around you, very much answers for him.

As you try to move forward the tendril coils harder, more thoroughly. With a scoff you extract yourself, pulling it off – it winds just as easily around your wrist, curling into your palm and lacing between your fingers, slick and clinging. You flick it off, stumbling forwards as you to do, tugging your feet away from a couple coils that trip you up, opening you up for more to swirl over your arms and waist.

Well, then. It’s to be like _that._ If he wants so badly to play around, who are you to deny him?

Feeling for your aether, the familiar hum of power in your soul, you let loose your own trails of aethereal energy, branching delicately through the air like soft lightning crystalizing into shadowed substance.

It's an interesting feeling, to have this extension of yourself, extra limbs that are yet not quite limbs – made solely of your own soul, obeying your will with ease, each curl and flick delightfully fluid. You stretch them down to wrap around his smooth, arousal-slickened tentacles, tight enough to dig in.

Hades seems wholly unconcerned with the development, instead reveling in a comically transparent surrender, taking his time to squirm close to your skin beneath your clothes, toy around your collar and your neck.

Once you have him well enough in your grip, you jerk his tendrils back, stepping forward as you do, moving quickly out of range, making it all the way to the door while only manifesting another tendril or two to bat off any further advances while you open up to greet the visitor.

Hythlodaeus. Of course. He greets you with a smile as always, though there’s a clear touch of surprise that you’ve cracked the door open so minutely. “I had heard Hades was not at the Convocation meeting this morning. Thought I might stop by and investigate.”

Normally you’d be a bit more composed, but Hades wriggles himself in your hold, stretching and reaching – you must wind out more and more aether from yourself to wrap him up more securely, hold him back several paces from the door.

“And to whom will you be,” For a terrible moment your heart jumps into your throat, words catching as one of his tendrils locks with yours, tightening so that the press of slick muscle into your own aether is unmistakable, “Reporting the results of this investigation?”

Hyth quite clearly notices your stumble – you can just picture the brow he’s raised past the plain white mask. “Elidibus will no doubt make an inquiry when he drops by the Bureau later. What shall I tell him?”

_That Emet-Selch is a depraved hedonist too busy lounging in his own release to attend the duties of his station,_ you think but don’t say. Just barely. Something on your face must give a bit of it away because Hyth’s lips are twitching and between that twitch and the twitch of Hades in your grasp – the clear arousal and wet, dewy desire dripping off him – you’re just about ready to slam the door in his face and teach Hades a lesson.

“He ate some bad fruit and was left with terrible bowel movements throughout the day.” You grind out, hand tensing and twitching about the door. The decidedly _non-_ titillating nature of your discussion does help, in part, but Hades is doing a marvelous job of working you up anyways, all smooth movement and thick muscle.

Crossing his arms, Hyth tilts his head at you, resting his weight on one foot in a way that makes you almost groan – along with how Hades twines one of his tentacles along yours in a lewd gesture that reminds you of fingers twined in yours, and even more the mental image his aether radiates through the twine of flesh; warmth, affection, intimacy, twirling and twisting about you, closer and closer and –

“And after I tell him that,” Hyth’s calming, utterly out of place cadence tugs you from the spiral of branches of twining aether, “What _actually_ happened?”

“Pollen,” You grouse, settling yourself against the doorframe, feeding off more of your aether to push Hades back, “The sort for individuals hoping to experience a heightened state of – ”

“Arousal,” Hyth finishes for you, chuckling as you glare. “Hades had mentioned his special order the other day. He’s in there right now, then? Is he awake?”

“ _Traitors_ are unworthy of answers,” Without moving an ilm you shove back Hades’s tendrils further, stubbornness overriding lust for the moment. “Exactly why did he make the order? Tell me everything.”

The smirk he gives you is almost as frustrating as the struggle you put up with further back. Hades’s tentacles are too _slick,_ writhing in your grip. He merely feeds more and more of his aether out, threading through where you hold him with ease. You have to send out more, and more, to wrap around his tips, knot around the larger tendrils, only for them to slip through with further lubrication.

“Why not ask him yourself?” Keeping one hand on the door, you contemplate reaching out with the other to shake him.

“If you know what he ordered, then quite plainly you must know he is not interested in explaining anything at the moment.”

A _laugh;_ the man’s the gall to mock you in your hour of misfortune and you glare daggers at him so hard from beneath your mask you’re sure he can feel them. Hyth holds his hands up at his sides as his chuckle dies off.

“It really _is_ the sort of thing you should discuss personally with one another…” You can almost _feel_ his urge to learn in, peer past the door; always so nosy, always wanting to see. Fortunately, you’re well positioned to block his vision.

You know the bitterness in your voice gets to him when you shoot back, “He did not think so. _He_ did not think it was at all worth discussing with me before he ordered it, and he let me go ahead of him this morning without a word.”

His good cheer dies right away. The tentacles behind you slow in their assault, as if chided.

Ah – it _is_ likely that Hades can hear you at this distance. _Good._

“Perhaps he hadn’t realized how long the effects would last?” Hyth sighs at your thoroughly unimpressed response. “He _had_ intended this to be a surprise. The other day he’d expressed concerns to me that he wasn’t… _enthusiastic_ enough regarding your bedroom affairs. I told him I found it unlikely you were upset about it – and if you were, that you would have told him – but even upon conceding that was the case, I could tell he was a bit taken with the idea.”

Taken with the idea, was he? _Naughty_ boy.

The chiding has him slipping back, almost as if to pull away, so you give yourself even more slack, not permitting him to squirm out of your grip. Your points of contact with him, those supple tendrils of smoothness, pull away and away, back towards the couch where you know he lies prone and wanting.

“Why would he – ” The way those tendrils coil and stretch along you, flesh pressing into your bare aether, his own essence seeping through, “I’ve never – ”

Shrugging, Hyth says, “Perhaps there was a night you were particularly excited, and he felt he wished to return that sentiment. Or perhaps he’s had issues with performance he hoped to remedy. It’s not an uncommon use, you know.”

“Not that I know of,” You feel heat creep up your face at the words, during which Hades _squeezes_ where he is twirled around you, letting you feel him all along yourself. Then, an agonized sort of indignance as Hyth nearly smirks at you, thinking that you are embarrassed by the _entirely wrong thing,_ and you _cannot correct him._

“Nevertheless, he knew perfectly well what he wanted out of this,” Or perhaps Hyth’s smirk is for the right reasons; you’ll need to remember this for later, when he inevitably needs a favor from you or Hades, “So I say you go enjoy him. After all the effort he put into debauching himself for you, it’s the least you could do, really.”

“Have you considered that _I_ am not – ” There’s something _on_ you that stops your words in your tracks – something wet, hot, enveloping, unimaginably slick, a faint brush of hardness and then the smooth writhe of a tendril against you, far shorter and –

Stars, he’s taken your aether into his _mouth._

“Not what? Not – ” You shut the door directly in Hyth’s face, slamming it shut as you spin to rest yourself back on it.

Slowly but surely, Hades has twined his tentacles around yours, wrapping and slipping and twisting until they are inextricably knotted. Soft but lean muscle undulates against your own aethereal tendrils as he twists them, tugs on them, pulling you closer and closer still.

His tongue is no less dedicated. Pressing and sliding over your aether as he sucks, the insides of his cheeks pulling in, a silken sensation absolutely _divine_ as it tucks against the essence of your soul.

“Hades,” You say in a lowered tone, not caring if Hyth could hear from the other side of the door. He always was the insightful sort, you wouldn’t put it past him to have the situation pinned – but in any case, he isn’t your problem right now.

Your only answer is a moan, one that vibrates against the tendril in his mouth, wracking through your being to strum delicate waves in your core. The image appears in your mind; your lover splayed back on the couch, lying in a pool of vines of his own making that gleefully run themselves along and around your own while he pumps himself along with how he sucks at your _soul,_ surrounding you with heat and wet smoothness unrelenting.

Hades is well past the time for words, communicating intent to you with a tug on the branches of your aether that jerks you forward, every point of contact burning in your awareness as they twist and turn beneath your grip. Tugging, teasing, the tendrils of his aether splitting, redoubling, as they move to bind and encompass you further.

Each whorl and knot against you drips with aethereal release. It pours and wafts off him, power freely emanating through each tentacle, the hum of his arousal, his need, his _Won’t you come to me, love_ and _Touch me touch me touch me ANYWHERE just touch,_ lewd whispers of _I will make it worth your while_ and the primal purr of _All mine, all that is mine is yours, we are as one, one being, one flesh, you know it to be true…_

Aether seeps into yours, permeating the external part of your soul which had become your tether, dripping along branches you feel as intimately as your own fingers, twining into you, carding against you and _pressing,_ so tenderly and deeply his own aether overlaps with yours, mixing and melding.

There’s more of that magnetism, the tense where his aether fuses into yours, tendrils wound so tightly their ends flowed into your, making it impossible to distinguish where your aether stopped and his began. There is only that nebulous pull that further tugs as you are wrested forward, stumbling, panting as your cheeks enflame.

His attentions, his moans as he lathers over the quickly dissolving tentacle in his mouth, how his being sings with heated want that caresses you just as his tendrils did. His aether beads along your twined essences, dripping down from inside you, towards him instead of downwards, trickling in distracting tickles that feel suspiciously like teasing kitten licks trailing along you.

Finally you stumble over into the back of the couch, leaning over as the tendrils of aether disperse largely into unfiltered auras, a welcoming embrace like walking into a heated room from a cold wintery night.

Hades, on his back, loosely palming his cock, looks back up at you. Lips still parted from his ministrations, tongue darting out as though seeking the missing limb until it draws back in. Chest bared and dewed with sweat, heaving lightly with the steady thrum of arousal.

Arousal that you now feel pulsing in yourself, in the air. Tantalizing licks at your aether, the feeling of him wrapping around you, weaving in and out and along your whole being. Gilded eyes hazed with lust stare up at you, wordlessly pleading while his fingers twitch uselessly against his length.

“What,” You say, unfamiliar with your own shortness of breath, “You can toy and tug at me, but you’ll not go any further? Tired of jerking it on your own after spending all morning and afternoon like this?”

Whining, his other hand just barely lifts from his side, hovering in the air, tilting up to reach out for you but stopping, dropping, well short of its goal. “I’ve waited…so long…”

“If you feel unwell,” The words come out curt as you shift, the wetness between your legs _painfully_ apparent as you adjust your weight, “I would be pleased to draw you a bath, drag you into the bathroom and dump you straight into it.”

Where did he learn those puppy dog eyes? He can’t be taking lessons from Cerberus. “Touch me… already.”

You lean forward further, heedless of the sweet scent that wafts into your nose, and let your hand fall down towards his face. Watch how his eyes brighten at the sight of it – his mouth opens to accept, a smug satisfaction permeating the air –

And then you flick him in the forehead.

“How about,” You snatch his arm and pull him up, ignoring his whining groan as you pull him off the couch, dragging him away from it, “You shut your mouth for once and listen to what **_I_** have to say?”

Those golden eyes meet your gaze, bright and pleading, face crumpling in honest disbelief. He had _really_ thought himself so irresistible – the poor man, it seems he’d convinced himself you were about to ravish him. And all he gets is your glare, grasping his wrists and separating his grasping hands as you pull him off the couch and down the hall, momentum increased in the face of your tirade.

“You did this _all_ on your own, without any input from me, never once asking what _I_ wanted,” The grievances come pouring out, and the heat in the air withers, faltering at your frustration. “If you wanted this for yourself then you should have spoken to me first – and taken the time off work! Who would be impressed to come home to this?”

You tug at his arm like he’s a misbehaving child, shaking it as you walk him to the bathroom; he’s put himself together enough to stumble along with you.

That he doesn’t speak is evidence enough of your thorough scolding. You don’t waste any time, filling the tub with just-hot-enough water while you tug him along by the arm and summarily shoving him into the tub. He splashes around terribly, legs not quite able to support him without movement, and sinks quickly to his knees inside it.

Turning to look up at you with those pleading eyes. You cross your arms. A pout forms on his lip, nearly quivering.

Before he can clutch his shoulders and whimper like some poor, shivering thing, you kneel down and reach into the tub, pulling the stopper so the water begins to flow out. His eyes are on you all the while, growing heavier as he reaches to cling at your arm before you can pull away, tugging it towards his chest.

Unimpressed, you stand right back up, even if it means bringing his arm with you, snatching it away when he tries to use his weight to pull you down. With a snap you materialize a sheet of water above him to replace what’s draining out – this time, much colder.

Ah, he _does_ make for quite a pitiful sight – jerking at the contact, white hair nearly transparent and soaked, sticking to his fraught and frowning face as his eyes widen in stark betrayal. You remain unimpressed.

“I never made any complaints about your _enthusiasm._ And I would like to think I’ve been quite open about our bedroom affairs, no matter what sort of thing you or I expressed interest in. If you wanted to try something new, you should have just said something.”

A stiffening. Limbs pulling together as his gaze averts. Finally, Hades slides back, laying in the water, staring listlessly upwards. His voice is still lowered with subdued arousal when he raises it, “I was going to surprise you. Be excited and eager and ready to tumble as soon as you walked in. Thought you might feel more wanted. More appreciated. Enjoyed.”

“And what did I do that made you think I felt unwanted?”

His reply is an incoherent scoff. “What does it matter what I think you want? As you so clearly informed me, I was wrong. I’d worked out the scene in my mind and it went entirely differently. Hyth came to the door and you took turns scolding me. Teasing me.”

“You brought _that_ upon yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” Hades’s tone rings with the sarcastic self-deprecation of a well-chided pessimist. Sighing, you flick the drain closed and raise the bathwater full and warm.

Despite himself he lets out a tiny groan, head leaning back as he falls more fully into the water, stretching out his form to fill the tub as he sank down. “I thought you would be happy. Thought I would do something _fun_. Spontaneous.”

“You would certainly have surprised me with this _spontaneous_ desire to try something new in our sex life. I might have even looked forward to it tonight. And _you_ could have avoided leaving me with all the awkward questions about where my partner was, and what he was doing, since all of our colleagues are well aware of our relationship!”

“What would you have said? _Ah, yes, the esteemed Emet-Selch is busy nursing his cock about now –_ ”

“You would have answered them yourself! We could have gone through our day and come back to do all…” You gesture towards his soaking form vaguely, “ _This,_ when we were home.”

A splash as he sinks further in, submerging up to his chin in an almost juvenile gesture. The idea of manifesting ice crystals in his bathwater is becoming more appealing by the minute.

It’s moments further until he sighs – not _quite_ as dignified as a sigh, but it’s not a scoff, with how the water bubbles at his lips – and tilts his head back to meet your eyes. “Is this the part where I apologize? Say I was too stubbornly invested in my own idea of what would happen to consider your perspective on the situation?”

You frown and you know he sees it. “You tell me.”

Hades bangs his head against the tub. “I apologize. And in the spirit of that apology I shall even grant you the right to dictate my punishment. Do with me as you will. Use my body, lather it up, stroke my hair – ”

“I like your hair.”

“Yes, you do. That _is_ why I offered.” He could stand to sound scolded for a little longer.

“I like Hyth’s better. It’s longer.”

“But duller by far.”

“Silvery.”

“You both say that, and yet he is still consistently mistaken as the older of us two. Length is not _everything,_ you know.”

“Sorry, were we talking about your hair or your – ”

In a move you probably should have expected, Hades bucks his hips up, erection peeking back through the waters – a bit less red and pained looking, but still flushed from the tub’s heat. “As you can clearly see, mine is superior in this respect, as well.”

You snap, dousing him with icy water again, not enough to last but enough to make him flinch into the warmth of the tub of water, even as he sat upwards, submerging his bottom half.

“Right now I find myself preferring them softer, so he has you beat on that point.”

“That can be quite easily remedied, I assure you, give me but a minute – ”

Another splash, followed by the swish of water as you turn and stalk away. You’d made it colder this time.

“Come now, I was promised a punishment – ”

“I agreed to no such thing,” You said dryly as you opened the door, not looking back for even a moment, “But consider this the start of it. Clean yourself up _alone.”_

“Without you? _Then_ who will stop my descent into depravity?” Looking over your shoulder, you see him – irked, demanding – but quite clearly desperate.

“I will be disposing of the pollen. If you _think_ you can get rid of _that,”_ You let your eyes glance meaningfully towards where his arousal would be under the water, “And you will still be able to perform tonight – be my guest. But otherwise, you’ve had _quite_ the morning and afternoon all by yourself, haven’t you?”

Brows draw together in challenge, but he speaks quickly so as not to lose you, “You mean to propose I _require_ an erection to satisfy you?”

Fair enough. “No. But however many times you’ve come today – do you really want your last one to be just as pathetic as the others, jerking it away in your hands instead of sharing the experience with your partner? Or instead of _dealing with your responsibilities,_ like a good Emet-Selch.”

A pause. “Call me good again?”

You laugh as you close the door, “Maybe tonight.”

There’s no way to see it, but walking down the hall you think you hear him smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, it has been a while, huh? I've been working a lot on the other Ascians, as I'm sure you've all noticed, but Emet's been getting his fair share of love, too! I'll run into him again, eventually, I'm sure, once I get through a few... dozen... more WiP projects involving the others XD
> 
> I'm not really confident with sex pollen and heat stuff, so I might revisit it another time - a lot of writers I know are exploring the concept and it's neat to see how other people take it, especially when I have such a loose grasp on it myself. Still, I'm a fan of the tentacle interactions here, although I'm not sure how easy they are to read when you don't have a writer's insight into the situation XD Hope you all enjoyed! Thank you for reading~ And sticking with me to 100k+ words, heheh :D


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